The Opiate: Summer 2022, Vol. 30

The Opiate Summer 2022, Vol. 30

The Opiate

Your literary dose.

© The Opiate 2022 Cover art: Photo taken at Chiesa della Santissima Annunziata, Vico Equense, 2019 This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.

Contact theopiatemagazine@gmail.com for queries.

“Beware the ire of the calm.”

-Muriel Spark

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Editor-in-Chief Genna Rivieccio Editor-at-Large Malik Crumpler Editorial Advisor Anton Bonnici Contributing Writers: Fiction: Jérémy Bernard, “Dark Matter” 10 Matthew Snyderman, “Belle of the Ball” 15 Peter Obourn, “Waiting in the Cincinnati Airport” 21 David Obuchowski, “Killing the Conch” 26 Timothy Knapp, “Ext. Backyard Sallow Willow” 39 Christopher Adams, “Before the Crack” 42

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Simone Consorti, translated by Patrick Williamson, “Plastic Wedding” (originally titled “Che i baci non lasciano i tracce”) 48 Poetry: Victor Marrero, “Variations on a Straight Line,” “Dangling,” “Underside of Being,” “Cosmic Deviance” & “Prime Study” 53-59 Dawn Bratton, “Dark Night of the Soul” & “A Glass Darkly” 60-61 Antonia Alexandra Klimenko, “Wingless” 62-63 Lindsey Wentzel, “Punching Bag” & “Patches and Stitches” 64-67 Luke Shiller, “Mit Marija am Schlactensee” 68 Zeke Greenwald, “Hymn to Anubis” 69 Dale Champlin, “Making the Bed,” “Before I Went Bad,” “Klieg Lights” & “Walls Borrowing Blue” 70-73 Criticism: Genna Rivieccio, “The Slender Choices of Women Across the Ages: Muriel Spark’s The Girls of Slender Means” 75

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Editor’s Note

What that phrase about “the calm before the storm” failed to take into account was how, one day, the constant, raging storm of modern existence itself would start to feel like nothing more than a “soothing” squall. With chaos being the new normal, how can one do anything but feel a general blankness (which can be deemed a type of “tranquility”) anyway? To genuinely react to all the fuckery afoot would make any person spontaneously combust. And sometimes, it feels by design that “They” make it that way.

Spinning you on a hamster wheel of bad news and outrageous law implementations (or overturnings, as was recently the case) that will have you curled up on the floor in a ball like one of Pavlov’s learned helplessness mutts if you pay attention to the freak show too closely. And the government is, to be sure, a fucking freak show. And yet, ultimately only a reflection of the people it governs. In the United States, about half of those constituents are more or less of the MAGA variety. A parody (though that feels like too gentle a word somehow) of the God-fearing, “good Christian” ilk that would insist upon keeping America “American.” Even though that has never meant white. One needn’t get into the whole history of the pillaging of Native American lands, but suffice it to say, the false origin story about the U.S. not really “starting” until Anglo-European “settlers” (a euphemism for, essentially, rapists) arrived has remained deeply baked within many a right-wing zealot.

And, talking of such ilk, the question of “freedom of speech” often tends to come up. With said sect of “humanity” so often citing “cancel culture” as the main reason why they can no longer express their objectively grotesque rhetoric. Unfortunately, those who do believe in freedom of speech tend to get either lumped in or embraced by the right when something “offensive” is said. Particularly in the political climate of now, with white supremacist males coming out of the woodwork for mass shootings whenever arbitrarily “provoked.” Usually by “replacement theory.” A case in point of how this has actually affected the art world came about in June of this year, when a well-known Brooklyn venue (Market Hotel) opted to cancel a “performance” from John Hinckley Jr. You know, the dude who tried to kill Ronald Reagan in 1981 to impress Jodie Foster. Unlike someone, say, not white, Hinckley Jr. was found not guilty for the crime by reason of insanity. Having subsequently spent the next three decades in a psychiatric facility, he was given an unconditional release from all previous court restrictions. The same day that announcement was made, Market Hotel offered their own regarding Hinckley Jr.’s scheduled performance (and no, he is not at all known for his musicianship). One that unwittingly exemplified how terrified everyone (especially Good Liberals) are of being deemed offensive or wrong or outright cancel-worthy. Compounded by the fear of somehow bringing all the white supremacist incels to the yard. The venue’s statement went as follows: “If we were going to host an event for the principle, and potentially put others at risk in doing so, it shouldn’t be for some stunt booking—no offense to the artist.

We might feel differently if we believed the music was important and transcended the infamy, but that’s just not the case here (though any artist can get there—even someone who committed awful crimes and suffered mental illness).”

The venue went on to reiterate that they absolutely adore “the idea” of Hinckley Jr.’s Redemption Tour (yes, that’s what he wants to call it). They just don’t want to invoke the freaky deakies it might appeal to.

Hence, the elaboration, “It is not worth the gamble on the safety of our vulnerable communities to give a guy a microphone and a paycheck from his art who hasn’t had to earn it, who we don’t care about on an artistic level and who upsets people in a dangerously radicalized, reactionary climate.” This, of course, directly counteracts their message that they encourage “hosting provocative happenings for its

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own sake.” Well, maybe they only mean that when it’s some other NYC venue doing it. So at least that way, they can see what kind of fallout it yields first before daring to test the waters themselves.

In effect, there is no room for “tongue-in-cheek” or “sardonic” moments in this culture. Especially if, as the venue stated, there’s no “principle-based” soapbox to stand on that fits within the ”correct” political framework. That’s how far down the toilette America has gone. At the same time, one imagines that, if this were pre-#MeToo (otherwise known as: men’s favorite time), and Charles Manson had been released from prison, he would have been embraced as a musical performer at a joint like Market Hotel. Particularly since he had those predilections before turning entirely to orchestrating mass killings and mayhem. The point being, perhaps enabling men like him in the past is what has led to this surfeit of cautiousness in the present.

Yet while everyone is so concerned with giving freak shows a platform that might draw out other freak shows, it seems one can’t put a lid on American absurdity regardless. The Pandora’s box on that is well open, and it ain’t ever closin’ again. Obviously. The overturning of Roe v. Wade is yet another manifestation of that. In addition to what I’ve been “spouting” (as some dickheads like to call it) all along: the patriarchy is alive and well, exhibiting no signs of slowing down. And this Supreme Court “decision” has only opened yet another floodgate for men to treat women like objects. Nothing more than playthings designed solely for men to fuck and breed with. The women-as-breeders-only narrative being as ingrained in the collective psyche as so many other sick things in our society.

Before this seemingly non sequitur eradication of a woman’s fundamental right to do what she wants with her own body came down, I had already selected this cover image featuring the Virgin Mary. It now feels ironically prophetic to me. For, in addition to Mary’s “divine” pregnancy being the greatest lie ever sold (apart from the Bible itself), she is a symbol, to so many, of “perfect womanhood.” Not only can she immaculately conceive, but she can do it in a pinch and with a smile (or, at the very least, not a frown). No muss, no fuss. A virtuous woman with “perpetual virginity.” Yeah fucking right.

This sounds like a tale made up by the patriarchy if ever there was one. Clearly, if Mary was based on a real person, it was someone who accidentally got pregnant and needed a really good cover story. And it should tell you something that, in Islamic religion, Mary (a.k.a. Maryam bint Imran) was long ago given the “highest rank” among women. Specifically called out in the Quran as the greatest woman to have ever lived. And why? Because not only did she refuse to get banged like all the other little sluts in order to become pregnant, but she would also never abort her baby. I mean, can you imagine? Aborting little Jesus Christ? How sinful! Though surely, they would’ve found some other poor sap to serve as the mascot for a misogynistic religion. Not a woman, obviously. For a woman’s role is relegated solely to being a “vessel” for both men’s needs in general and a messiah to come out of specifically. What’s more, some aspect of making Mary a “virgin” lends an added layer of misrepresentation in that there’s still, for whatever reason, no mention of her having a period. Shit, maybe even lactation was “divine” for Mary, too.

But surely she must have been menstruating at some point—long enough for it to be worth a casual callout in the Bible. Then again, that would have rendered her as too “impure,” just like all the other “unclean” basic bitches in the Big Book of Patriarchy. The ones who warrant an entire instructive pamphlet, so to speak, in Leviticus, wherein all the ways she is unclean for having a period are spelled out with rules and regulations befitting the insanity of the male mind.

So it is that the “Holy Book” dictates, “Whenever a woman has her menstrual period, she will be

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 ceremonially unclean for seven days. Anyone who touches her during that time will be unclean until evening. Anything on which the woman lies or sits during the time of her period will be unclean. If any of you touch her bed, you must wash your clothes and bathe yourself in water, and you will remain unclean until evening. If you touch any object she has sat on, you must wash your clothes and bathe yourself in water, and you will remain unclean until evening.” This is where it starts to feel like someone should write their own book called ...And You Will Remain Unclean Until Evening, detailing the madness of any person who ever abided by these cockamamie “rules.” All put forth primarily as a means to ensure women would forever be viewed as grotesque animals. Another modern-day conspiracy afoot against women being the fact that there is a tampon shortage. As though to further accent that we are the “lesser” sex because we are, as the Bible wanted to spotlight repeatedly, unclean. So unclean that you probably shouldn’t even be around us, let alone try to bone us while we’re ragging. Because, as “God” willed it, “If a man has sexual intercourse with her and her blood touches him, her menstrual impurity will be transmitted to him. He will remain unclean for seven days, and any bed on which he lies will be unclean.”

No fucking wonder they decided to make Mary free of any such “impurity”—not only a virgin, but a period-free one at that. Nothing less for the Divine Son. Not a woman for a mother, but a near “saint.” Because for a woman to be given such an important role, she could not be “just” a woman.

She needed to have that aspect of herself erased by the patriarchal hands writing the so-called narrative. One that is so overtly not meant to be taken seriously in terms of how to live your life, least of all in the present-day. And definitely not as a text that should be factored into how any branch of the U.S. government ought to make its laws. Really, does the Supreme Court need to be told that about a book instructing, “When the woman’s bleeding stops, she must count off seven days. Then she will be ceremonially clean. On the eighth day she must bring two turtledoves or two young pigeons and present them to the priest at the entrance of the Tabernacle”? Directives as nonsensical and hooey-filled as “turn around three times and throw salt over your right shoulder.” But this is the kind of “logic” currently influencing the repeal of Roe v. Wade protections. All in the name of bowing to what is, objectively, one of the most anti-female texts of all-time (apart from, presently, the U.S. Constitution itself). That’s what’s running the “greatest country in the world.”

Your sister in disgust, Genna Rivieccio July 2022 People’s Republic of California

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FICTION 9.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Dark Matter Jérémy Bernard

M

amma has always had a love for other people’s possessions. While growing up, other people’s possessions were all she had. She told us about the endless stream of hand-me-downs. We used to joke about how her house was the first recycling plant in our country. She didn’t find that funny. In rebuke, she one day explained that it wasn’t about recycling, it was about destroying. Everything that got passed down to her destroyed its past and everything she had to pass down to her siblings would destroy her. The only way to escape was to think of it as other people’s possessions, as though they were only being borrowed by her for the briefest of moments.

That idea led her to play games in her head. She forgot about her older brother owning the rugged baseball cap that now floated on her head and instead pictured a famous athlete like Chipper Jones that affectionately gave it to his number one fan. All these other people’s things belonged to grand figures that carried her through the misery of poverty, carried her high on their shoulders and held her tiny, filthy hands in theirs as they gallivanted on the red carpet rolled out for the most special of events. Everyone in her

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mind was gathered there night after night as she opened the closet. Blinded from the reality of her childhood, a scintillating sequined prom dress popped out and hugged her skin. After the dance, when the sweat would have the sparkling sequins rub off, her skin would be the one to blind her family.

Wishful thinking had allowed her to shoot for the stars and even got her as far as being one the few women in our country to get a PhD in astronomy. The work was relentless, but it brought her closer to the safety of the unknown, the unrelenting void of space where nothing belonged to no one. This led her to accrue at the same time an elevated status within her community and, given that her contributions were quite valued across the education field, many schools were more than willing to have us enroll pro bono. I never had the chance to meet my father. All men excluding myself were utterly dismissed; they always treated my mamma like she owed them for loving her. My science teacher would gush over the opportunity to see Mamma during the parent-teacher meetings. If you ever thought those meetings could be awkward, try imagining yourself being the third wheel during a date where both you and

Dark Matter - Jérémy Bernard your mamma had to attend. He would wear his astronomy tie with glow-inthe-dark stars that would constantly distract us whenever the projector was rolled out for an impromptu Bill Nye the Science Guy viewing session.

“The thing about glow in the dark,” he would explain to my mamma, “is that it’s only possible once the stars have absorbed enough energy from the light, which is just the complete opposite of what stars actually do, right?”

“Is that so?” her face ironically reflected the complete non-absorption of whatever he was rambling on about. Containing the faint glimmer of kindness that allowed strangers to always interpret intrigue where there was nothing but boredom.

“I’m sure someone like yourself already knows all about the science of the tie, but it’s always a pleasure to teach the small details that many would overlook!” He tried putting his hands on the desk now, possibly pretending that she would join her hands to his. “That’s how I’ve been seeing my role as an educator when it comes to your two wonderful children.”

“I’ve been told you’ve been relegating most of that duty to a certain Bill Nye lately.”

He immediately became flustered and leaned back into his chair.

“There’s a-a demand in education, I mean from the people that keep the school running.” He straightened his posture as my mamma’s eyes stared into his. “We have to stay hip with the kids, you know? When I was a kid, Bill was like a hero to me. Nowadays my heroes are the incredible scientists like you!”

One of the mothers had overheard their conversation and spread the word. There was a tentative approach to get my mother invited to one of the many private dinners the school held for fundraising, but no one knew how to approach her.

What we did know was that she

would never show up without them first going through us. I was used to having the science community always at our doorsteps with little gifts, but now people’s admiration for Mamma reached into the school we went to, entered into my life and got me hooked head over heels on Mamma like all the others. Now that she knew they were interested in her, we were given the mission to be invited to anything that got us into others’ houses. Our reports back to HQ would include such info as the jobs of their parents, how much they made, their names, last names and whether or not she could see them appear on TV or in the newspaper. It was difficult at first to find any friends when every conversation would revolve around someone’s parents.

I never really got to know anyone.

Each kid was just like an accessory on a parent’s keychain, put side by side with the keys to their Mercedes and mansion. I guess we also went into our own little game, finding the wealthiest parents at the very start, something that would really sweep Mamma off her feet. Even though the kids found it difficult to talk to us, their parents, apparently sending their children on the same mission as us, were forced into inviting me and my sister to their birthdays alongside the rest of the class. Anyone whose parents were impressive enough, which turned out to be almost the entire class anyway, was on that birthday list.

The string of parties became the most treasured memories I have of those days. Later I was to read The Great Gatsby and couldn’t help but feel like the unimportant neighbor stranded in the middle of lavish parties where any kid would try to infiltrate. The difference was that most parties were confined to apartments, although “confine” does no justice to the extreme proportions of certain living quarters. There was one kid whose birthday was reserved to the “party area,” a remodeled living room that had a glass ceiling and dark

walls that expanded to the size of an actual club’s main stage. The setting was monochrome at first. I can only imagine Mamma going inside and feeling like she had entered the void of space, watching her lie down in the middle of the room, in the middle of the night, and just weep at the view of Saturn, whose rings would circle her over and over embracing her mind with the fantasies she hadn’t escaped to since her childhood. The moment the candles on the cake were blown out, the lights were turned on and the slick black walls flashed up in neon lights of various colors, changing uncontrollably and invoking the entire party into a dance frenzy. Walking over to the soda fountain, I searched the room for my sister. Locking eyes, we shared a look of complete agreement.

This was the place for her.

The parents whose apartment had contained the best party of the year happened to be TV hosts for a successful pop culture-oriented science show for kids called Stars on Stars. They had done collaboration videos with some of our favorite TV heroes in order to explain to children things like black holes, basic biology and climate change. We couldn’t have found a better family if we tried, and getting Mamma invited to their place for brunch was a piece of cake. We found them lounging in their living room, a space that had been closed off during the party. There was a definitive theme to each of their rooms; the living room was all about antiquity and contained museum-like exhibitions of statues, busts and paintings from centuries we had never learned about in school.

It was quite obvious why they would want to close this off to us. When the food was ready, we were surprised to notice that the mother was the one to bring it out instead of any maid or housekeeper. It made us realize that there wasn’t a single person outside the family to clean, cook or maintain the apartment. It seemed they only hired people for big events.

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 Mamma was in complete disbelief. “That must be so much work… I can’t possibly imagine cleaning this every day.” She took another look at the room and continued, “Especially when you have your show to work on.”

The father was the first to chuckle. It was the type of comfortable laughter that immediately brings

The co-host was able to immediately pick up on his wife’s gaze, in the same way he would whenever she would forget her lines. “Oh right! We have an exciting proposal that I’m sure will delight you!” His voice switched to the familiar tone I would hear on his program, and his posture tensed to go into “preparing the next segment” mode. He then offered, “We would

around the room for her son. “Oh dear, where did he go?”

Mamma took this opportunity to send us away under the pretense of finding Jessie.

Jessie’s mamma was in complete agreement, adding, “Yes that’s perfect, I’m sure you two don’t want to hear about this boring adult stuff anyways.”

“She forgot about her older brother owning the rugged baseball cap that now floated on her head and instead pictured a famous athlete like Chipper Jones that affectionately gave it to his number one fan.

All these other people’s things belonged to grand figures that carried her through the misery of poverty...” those around him into complete ease.

“You’re right, this place is normally a complete pigsty. You’re actually really lucky to visit us after the cleanup from Jessie’s party.”

His wife looked quite embarrassed and attempted to change the topic. “We actually do try to maintain the house, my husband is just being his usual sarcastic self.” This, she realized, had not changed the subject in the slightest. “Anyways...” Her eyes darted desperately to her husband’s.

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absolutely love to have you be the first guest appearance on our next season.

We’re doing an amazing feature on dwarf planets and specifically why little Pluto was thought to be a planet for so long.”

His wife picked up where he left off, naturally and without a moment’s hesitation. “As you noticed already, we’ve had a lot of work on our hands with balancing the show, cleaning and raising Jessie.” It was at this point that she paused and glanced

As we left the room, we heard Jessie’s parents describing what they considered a much deserved vacation before starting the next season. What we really cared about wasn’t the room full of ancient people and their ancient possessions, nor was it a kid we hardly knew anything about. Instead we scoured every room relentlessly for a pair of spare keys, mapping a layout of the apartment in our minds. My sister called dibs on Jessie’s room and I told her the first person to find the

Dark Matter - Jérémy Bernard keys could also get first pick. A thought popped into my head, staring at the kitchen, and seeing the perfect marble table, brand-new electric stove and artsy, uncomfortable chairs. Why in the world did they have such a tacky cookie jar? Now this could be because I was actually feeling a little snackish, but my first instinct was to open it up and see what I could find. At worst, it would be a decent treat; at best, it would be the perfect hiding place for a spare pair of keys. While my sister was rifling through the many drawers in Jessie’s room I stood at the doorstep dangling them from the tip of my fingers.

We came back to the big people’s room where Mamma was just about ready to leave. I tugged at her arm three times just like we practiced and she gave us a wink. The brunch didn’t last long after that. Evidently, Jessie was actually off to swimming practice that day and his mamma had just forgotten. When I handed her the keys, Mamma’s face lit up like I’d never seen, and a sense of pride swelled in our pitiful chests. We could hardly sleep, full of anxiety about Mamma waking us up with the news that it was finally time. When that day came, she picked us up from school in a rented car and we were off on a clandestine adventure, driving in zigzags like we were being chased.

We stood in front of the building, but it stood taller—a skyscraper that actually tore open the fabric of the world. It left the early dark sky bleeding onto the edge. At first, the ability to roam inside someone’s apartment was tantalizing. Each room was intact, almost identical to how we saw it before leaving brunch. I had chosen Jessie’s room mostly so that my sister couldn’t, although I’m sure the parents’ room wasn’t much to complain about. Some time passed and it wasn’t long before the lack of any personality within the room became overbearing.

How could I imagine myself living

here if I couldn’t even imagine Jessie living here? I heard a dashing sound pass by the door and couldn’t help but go outside, even if we really weren’t supposed to. I was sure it was the sounds of my lil’ sis equally bored with the room she had been confined to.

To my surprise, I saw an intruder, a little girl that we somehow didn’t account for. I followed her to the kitchen and observed as she opened up the fridge, disappointed by its empty contents (although anyone could’ve easily guessed that a family wouldn’t leave food behind before going off on vacation). Her emotions were all in short bursts of passion. The intense disappointment led to the renewed interest for the cupboards, the sink, the drawers, throwing any food she could find, aiming for the luxurious marble counter. My eyes would wince each time a box of cereal had crashed onto the surface and spilled on the floor.

When all had been gathered into its singular, ungodly pile, the emotion of the little girl, perceivable by a lick of the lips and a widening of the eyes, was that of hunger. Perhaps to many, a feast of dried fruits, protein bars, seaweed and spilled cereal could hardly ever be called a feast. To this girl, however, it was the fulfillment of every craving she desired.

Amassing it all into a large bowl, she then proceeded to saunter around some more and explore the rest of the apartment. I envied that kind of curiosity. Her ability to be satisfied by the contents of her bowl but never sated by the view laid before her eyes. We walked into the living room and its obliqueness, its dark dreary atmosphere, mixed in with the statues, whose judging, ancient eyes pierced me like the scolding of a particularly angry schoolteacher. I was amazed by how unfazed she was, how easily she entered that room. She almost immediately plopped herself onto the long Roman lounging chairs and fished her hand inside the bowl

for another protein bar. There was an ease to everything she did and, even though it was obvious we were both discovering the apartment together, truly analyzing every nook and cranny for as long as we desired, there was a feeling I had that maybe all of this belonged to her. Or at least that was the way she acted.

She traipsed through every room, entering each one in a random order. Entering in bathrooms to run a bath she would never take or flushing down triple-ply toilet paper to admire the suction force of the toilets. Maybe it was by sheer coincidence that the final room happened to be the party room. I’ll never understand what happened in that moment. When the doors were flung open, I stood right behind the curtains, peeking my head around so as to vaguely make out the details of the room. At nighttime, it was just as stunning as I remembered it to be. When her eyes took in the room, she was literally stunned, floored even, as the dark bleeding sky seeped in through the windows, observable from such an intimate distance. Before the day broke through, Venus was the planet that held your attention, announcing the start of the day, but the end of ours. Lying on the floor was my mamma, unfurled before the sky, and though her mind could explain the phenomena, her eyes had accepted the incomprehensible, and her soul rejoiced in the beauty of it all. Mamma had caught the attention of the little girl and she made her way towards her.

They were both lying down there side by side. I thought they were weeping together, the muffled noises from their mouths as though they couldn’t bear to interrupt the moment in any way.

Mamma must’ve noticed the little girl’s tears as well, for her body shifted so as to be facing her.

With a gentle caress on the little girl’s cheek, Mamma whispered, “Don’t spoil your view darling, can’t you see we finally made it? We’re

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 back home now, back in the world I should’ve never left.”

A shooting star passed through the sky and I wish I could’ve seen exactly what happened because by the time it was gone so, too, was the little girl. Mamma was left alone, stranded in the midst of other people’s possessions.

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Belle of the Ball Matthew Snyderman

T

he man rocked back and forth in the heavy rain—head down, hands on his knees—breathing hard.

Eventually, he straightened up and slowly climbed the stairs to a house that would have dominated the block were it not for the incense cedars shielding it from the street. His Fitbit read 10:17 p.m. The elapsed time for his six-mile run—thirty-six minutes, twenty seconds— blinked back at him like a heart monitor.

Unlocking the front door in the light of his headlamp and keying in the alarm code, he started to peel off his sodden gear before noticing something had changed since venturing out forty minutes earlier.

An envelope made of the kind stock you saw with high society wedding invitations was propped up on the foyer table so he couldn’t help but see it. One line was visible, written in elegant calligraphy: Mr. Jonas Valentine There was no return address. Somebody had hand delivered it inside the house in the middle of the night, thwarting a state-of-the-art security system.

Several ocean breaths steadied Jonas’ hand, allowing him to extract a silver letter opener from the table drawer and surgically slit the top seam. “Could it be?”

This was the season, or so he’d heard.

Dear Mr. Valentine, It is with great pleasure that we invite you and a guest to attend our Winter Ball. It will take place on Saturday, February 9.

Evening dress is required.

A car will arrive to pick you up at precisely 11:30 p.m.

Your ride will leave immediately if you are not waiting inside your car port. The location will be kept secret, even from you. Kindly tell nobody of this communication. Of course, cell phones and cameras are strictly forbidden.

Practicalities aside, we look forward to meeting you. Welcome to our little community.

Congratulations, The Committee Still too excited and nervous to consider how The Committee had even found him, Jonas walked down the hallway, past the library and solarium, to the dining room and a table that could easily accommodate fourteen, but

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 had typically seated just one since his parents’ long-ago demise. He’d always preferred to work here, whether planning a science project as a fifth grader or overseeing the myriad venture capital projects that began finding their way to him during his meteoric rise in the rarefied air of Silicon Valley high finance. Elbowing a mound of proposals aside, he settled in to make a list to the sounds of his favorite classic soul station. “I Put a Spell on You” boomed from the speakers.

Winter Ball To Dos 1. Find the perfect date: 38-24-38 2. Coordinated outfits 3. Accessories—for her: a. makeup b. perfume c. jewelry d. corsage 4. Dance practice What remained of the night was spent trolling the internet for the latest styles.

Dawn found him still in the previous night’s sweaty running clothes, slumped over the table dreaming of dancing under a rotating mirrorball on a parquet floor that stretched out of sight with a partner whose face he could not yet see. Around them swirled a sea of couples in silhouette, barely visible through the gloom.

Upon waking, he cleared his calendar for the next month of everything from online gaming tournaments to conference calls and suspended the notification apps on his social networking accounts.

The hoi polloi could wait. A few more clicks summoned several specialized dating sites to a bank of screens—NightshadeParamours, DropDeadGeorgous and his favorite, MidnightOrchid—each directing him to a checklist of preferences. Boxes for race, skin tone, height, body type, hairstyles and eye color completed, he made the necessary rush job crypto currency deposits and launched the

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order forms into the ether.

It took three anxious days, during which he rarely strayed far from home, for the telltale tone indicating fulfillment to sound, courtesy of MidnightOrchid. *** With two days to go, Denise arrived, allowing barely enough time to prepare, but somehow Jonas managed to pull it all together. And at the appointed hour at the appointed spot, a gray limo pulled up, its rear doors opening automatically so passengers and driver could remain anonymous to each other.

Heavily frosted windows prevented Jonas from seeing where they were going, but the driver, silent and obscured by the limo’s opaque privacy barrier, seemed to be taking an inordinate number of twists and turns, probably to confound any attempts at guessing their destination.

The welcome lack of a television allowed Jonas to take in Denise’s beauty, the tropical scent of her perfume flooding his nostrils. A muted dome light set off the gold corkscrew earrings against her chocolate brown skin and picked up the sheen of a stunning afro. Ever attentive, he couldn't help fussing with the neckline of her dress, which had slipped, revealing her pink bra strap and a tempting glimpse of cleavage. But this was no time for anything but gentlemanly contact.

Their trip had been so smooth that Jonas failed to notice the limo slowing until it jerked to a stop and set the high-priced liquor bottles in the limo’s bar to rattling. “We’ve arrived, sir,” intoned the driver over the intercom. “Enjoy the ball.”

Jonas stepped out into the circular courtyard of a three-story mansion and hurried to prepare Denise and himself for their debut. The structure’s balconies, framed by lush hanging plants and New Orleans-style

railings, were deserted, as was a porch swing swaying gently in the breeze.

“Here we go,” Jonas thought as he cinched his bowtie and turned Denise toward the glowing luminaria that marked a path toward the house and brought to mind an airport runway at night. Beyond was a six-foot wrought iron fence, gate ajar, with clusters of red balloons tied to its jagged spikes. Then came a short ramp flanked by a set of antique lawn jockeys who seemed to wave them toward an open door and a hallway lined with abstract, vaguely unsettling paintings illuminated by small lamps which provided the passageway’s only source of light. Finally, a closed double door with a braided rope hanging to its right. A sign on the wall inscribed with bold gothic lettering read: “Pull Me.” Several tugs produced nothing but silence until the doors swung wide and revealed a balcony that seemed suspended in mid-air. Jonas and Denise passed between a matched pair of hulking, bald doormen towards the railing. A massive gong sounded.

“Mr. Jonas Valentine and Denise,” announced the doorman who guided the couple toward an open lift that would convey them down to the ball.

Waves of rhythmic clapping and stomping seemed to cue a spotlight which illuminated the new arrivals in a bright circle. Sliding behind Denise, who was propped up on an aluminum alloy frame specially designed to pose cadavers in life-like postures, Jonas wheeled her like a voluptuous piece of luggage onto an open lift that ferried them to the party. But acclamation turned to silence during their descent while he swiveled Denise so their new friends could see her right hand arranged in a gesture of greeting. Her Afro swayed with the bob of her head when they touched down.

Clusters of chattering, tuxedoed men, arms encircling younger companions bedecked in everything

Belle of the Ball - Matthew Snyderman from catsuits to off-the-shoulder gowns, were scattered about the room.

No one acknowledged or made way for Jonas, forcing him to slalom Denise among them to the mahogany bar where he ordered himself a mint julep, his father’s cocktail of choice.

joined the merriment until he abruptly found himself laughing alone. Tallest by half a head and built like a tennis club member who could actually play tennis, the man closest to him didn’t even bother to suppress his sneer. “Do you mind?”

his thinning jet-black hair was slicked back over a skull that seemed a bit too big for his body. An impossibly toothy smile framed by a pencil mustache grew ever wider while taking Jonas’ hand with a limp shake and shallow bow. “Hello, Jonas, I’m Barnabas

“...it wasn’t until the dancing resumed that he realized, to his embarrassment, that Denise’s frame was the culprit and perhaps the reason so many were casting contemptuous glances their way.

So he pulled her off the floor and began futilely patting his pockets for a travel-size WD-40.”

A quintet of perfectly barbered gentlemen nipped from glasses of absinthe and admired themselves in the towering mirror behind the bar.

“Can you believe Archie brought his mother?” said one of them conspiratorially.

“Not again!”

“You’d think he’d have his pick with all that money. Still, you have to admit she’s held up better than a Timex.”

Jonas, who’d been listening in,

“Excuse me; I couldn’t help but laugh. My name’s Jonas,” he responded with a smile, extending his hand.

The tennis player started to turn his back until Jonas roughly caught his elbow and spun him around until they were nose to nose. “What?

Trade in your manners for a gold card?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interrupted a fast-moving man in a leopard-print bowtie and cummerbund. Barely five-foot-three,

Donner. And this must be, uh…”

“Denise.”

“Ah, yes. Denise. Welcome down the rabbit hole to my winter home.”

Curious revelers gathered around, exchanging whispers. Some simply stared in disbelief, arms folded.

Then they leaned in, as though playing Simon Says, to hear how Barnabas would finesse the situation.

Laying an arm across Jonas’ shoulders and parting the crowd with

17.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 a wave of his free hand—“Might we have a word? Why don’t you leave the charming Denise here”—Barnabas led the younger man to a momentarily deserted buffet for a discreet chat.

“You must be famished. Spider roll?

They’re marvelous.” Mountains of sumptuous fare had Jonas’ mouth watering and he promptly erected a

you know.” Barnabas’ Cheshire cat grin deserted him as he began compulsively cracking his knuckles.

“And, as you might expect, we do have certain standards. Financial and whatnot. No surprises there, I’m sure. You, needless to say, passed with flying colors… But then, well, there’s your choice of companion—”

through a blizzard of confetti in search of their freshly embalmed partners before wheeling them onto the dance floor.

Young man, there’s a place you can go/I said, young man, when you’re short on your dough/You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find/Many ways to have a good time/It’s fun to stay at the…

“Forming into lines, the living entwined themselves with gussied-up cadavers latched to aluminum body frames, and began manipulating their partners’ limp arms into a sequence of familiar shapes.” small sushi pyramid on an appetizer plate.

“Now, Jonas, we were very excited to have you join us. It’s been —what?—almost two years since we’ve brought in any new blood.”

Sweat was beading on Barnabas’ furrowed brow and threatened to run down his nose.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, I consider myself an open-minded fellow, but you have to understand that ours is a venerable institution. This chapter alone goes all the way back to the 1850s,

18.

“You mean Denise.”

“Quite right, Denise. Well, none of us ever imagined you’d be bringing a…”

“Yes?” The host’s voice dropped, “Well, look around; she’s obviously…”

Young man, there’s no need to feel down/I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground/I said, young man, ‘cause you’re in a new town…

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Barnabas, “That’s my song!” Jonas was left alone with his sushi to watch the host join other men swarming

Forming into lines, the living entwined themselves with gussied-up cadavers latched to aluminum body frames, and began manipulating their partners’ limp arms into a sequence of familiar shapes.

Y-M-C-A! Jonas, who nursed an abiding distaste for the Village People, just couldn’t bring himself to join the Busby Berkeley disco nightmare unfolding amidst the interlocking constellations spinning off mirrorballs.

Things got no better when “Electric Avenue” came on followed by “Funky

Belle of the Ball - Matthew Snyderman Town.” But he was itching to dance and eventually joined the throng with Denise in tow, despite the song selection.

Back-to-back fast dances left those with a pulse panting on the sidelines, prompting the DJ to spin “More Than A Woman” so they could catch their breath. A single couple, resplendent in white, remained and performed a stylish duet. It also allowed a smartly dressed pit crew, with flesh-toned duct tape and surgical staples at the ready, to repair the odd lost limb. Nary a soul, meanwhile, approached Jonas and Denise, even though they cut dashing figures on the dance floor and Denise’s frame was the latest import and very hard to get. *** A persistent, metallic squeak had been setting Jonas’ teeth on edge, but it wasn’t until the dancing resumed that he realized, to his embarrassment, that Denise’s frame was the culprit and perhaps the reason so many were casting contemptuous glances their way. So he pulled her off the floor and began futilely patting his pockets for a travel-size WD-40.

Each ensuing request for assistance was greeted with a chilly shrug or mumbled excuse; that is, if the other person did not snub him outright.

Even the pit crew claimed to be out after a cursory search of their gearpacked Louis Vuitton bags.

Increasingly exasperated, Jonas spun away from a particularly rude old school banker type with a J. P. Morgan paunch and practically walked into a tube of the elusive lubricant. His eye traveled from the white gloved hand holding the dispenser along a bracelet-adorned arm to a redhead with a gold nose ring, freckles and an impish smile.

Her bobbed hair and sequin-studded mini dress brought to mind the

saucy flappers he associated with Depression-era movies. “You know why you’re getting the cold shoulder, don’t you?” Jonas nearly suffered a coronary at the sound of her voice.

“Christ!” he practically yelled.

“Sorry about that; couldn’t be helped. Talking women are pretty scarce around here… So?” “I don’t know; because I look like I’m four months out of college?” he muttered while spraying Denise’s cranky wheel.

The woman rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Come on, dude!

What does everybody besides your friend here have in common?”

“Denise.”

“Okay, Denise.”

Jonas now surveyed the landscape with a more critical eye, from bar to dance floor to gaming tables surrounded by boisterous high rollers. “They’re, uh, white.”

“Very good,” she replied, poking him in the shoulder. “Welcome to the George A. Romero Country Club, circa 1960. I’m Leila.”

“Jonas.”

“Denise’s contacts are awesome, by the way; very life-like…

Goodness! Where are my manners?” she exclaimed, stepping aside to reveal a frame whose passenger was a tall male with an unruly full beard and shades, an unlit cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. “This is Ralph.”

“Ralph? Not Fidel?”

“Very funny… The old guard barely acknowledges me either.

I only get into their stag party because Barnabas is my uncle and they don’t want to piss him off. Patti—she’s out there somewhere dragging around her latest Captain Kirk look-alike— is the only other ‘lady’ host tonight.

She gets invited because her father owns half the United States. She can be a brat, but we stick together. Out of solidarity.”

“Then why come at all if they’re such dicks?”

A tandem of drink-bearing servers hustled past on their way to the main table. Leila deftly relieved them of a pair of champagne cocktails and handed one to Jonas with an arched eyebrow. “You should see the Committee-sponsored ladies’ teas where we get to bring our beaus before they hit their sell-by date.

Talk about prim; you can barely tell the living from the dead. At least the Winter Balls have a pulse… sort of… and give me a chance to step out a bit and enjoy our little, shall we say, predilection. Plus, the food’s better here. I hate cucumber sandwiches.”

When “Uptown Funk” sprung from the speakers, driving scores of couples back to their tables, Jonas laughed and grinned at Leila: “You?” “Moi?” she mouthed silently, palm to chest, as they deposited their half-empty glasses on the nearest table. “Shall we?”

Jonas and Leila took advantage of the wide open spaces and swept their dates onto the parquet, casting their inhibitions aside in a scandalous twerking display, ladies bent over in front of the gentlemen, butts in the air. Those seated nearby tried not to look at the bumping and grinding, but did anyway. The song ended with Jonas executing an expert spin and dip that deposited Denise’s ample décolletage barely one inch from the surly banker’s crimson face.

“I can get away with shit like that, Jonas. Sort of...” said Leila on their way toward the bar once the DJ came to his senses. “But not you.”

“Who cares? Exclusive, okay; you can’t let just anybody in. But I was not expecting this Jim Crow soirée What’s wrong with Denise?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, nothing! So I prefer women of color. Always have.

The first girl I kissed was Black, on

19.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 the sly in a funeral parlor. No way I’m choosing a date just to please the new planter class.” He downed a generous shot of top-shelf tequila and rapped on the bar for a refill.

“Well, what are you going to do, Mr. Big Shot?” she sighed. “Host your own—” The two stared into their glasses. Then at each other.

“Why the hell not? Why not stage our own gala?”

Eyes suddenly sparkling, they scooted their bar stools together and lowered their voices.

“We’d have to start small,” he continued.

“How small? Please, not a potluck.”

“God, no! We’ll need a caterer. And a decent DJ. I’m sure MidnightOrchid could discreetly hook us up with a ton of good vendors—” “Awesome. I bet Patti’ll go for it; she’s a closet Democrat, you know,” Leila interrupted with a wink, frantically trying to get her attention, “Nobody over forty-five. And we can bring whoever we want, as long as they’re locally sourced.”

“Totally.

Black, white, Latinx.”

“LGTBD.” “United Against Hate; ready or not.”

The bartender, who’d been polishing glasses a few feet away, leaned in on an elbow, stroking his goatee.

“I’d work that gig. These swells don’t tip for shit.” Then he poured a round of Johnny Walker Blue and raised his eyebrows along with his glass. “To Oz?” “To Oz!” they echoed, no longer caring who heard them, slamming their glasses down for another round.

Escorts now forgotten and stiffening against the mahogany bar, the new guard tipsily toasted the future. And themselves.

20.

Waiting in the Cincinnati Airport Peter Obourn

I

’m sitting in the Cincinnati Airport, doing what all the other passengers are doing: waiting. I’m waiting to fly back home to Los Angeles after attending the funeral of a man I didn’t know very well and never really cared much about.

Three days ago, I got an email announcing that Ozzie Farnsworth’s father had died. I lay awake that night thinking about the old neighborhood where I grew up, mostly about Ozzie. For some reason, I felt I just had to see Ozzie again after more than thirty years. So the next morning I checked airline schedules and realized I could fly to Cincinnati on Friday and return late Saturday. I told my husband that an old friend’s father had died and that he had meant so much to me I wanted to go to the funeral service. I’d be away only one night. I’d go by myself and leave him in charge of the kids and the dog for just one night. I said it that way so he would think I meant that the father had meant so much to me.

My husband is a doctor, a primary care physician, beloved by me and his patients. He understands people.

He would have understood if I had simply told him I was

going to the funeral alone just to see an old friend of mine.

But I didn’t, and this story is about me, not my husband.

Earlier today at the funeral, I went through the receiving line. Of course he didn’t recognize me, so I had to say, “Ozzie, it’s me, Georgina.”

He looked at me for a minute. “Georgina, I don’t believe it,” he said. Then he put his arms around me and we embraced. It was a little embarrassing.

There was a reception in the church basement with tea and cookies. Ozzie’s wife, Kate, said, “Georgina, I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you came all this way for Ozzie. He’s told me all about you and how close you were growing up. It means so much to him that you came.”

As I was leaving, an elderly man I didn’t recognize stopped me and smiled. “I understand you’re little Georgina Shaw. I remember. You wrote that play. You were the Easter Bunny. I was there.” I smiled back.

His wife grabbed his elbow and pulled him away.

“Come, George,” she demanded, then looked at me and apologized, “I’m sorry, dear. He gets a little confused.”

But he wasn’t confused. I knew what he was talking about.

21.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 *** The old neighborhood was basically five of us. I was about to begin fifth grade. So were the Bivoni twins, Tommy and Judy—not identical twins even though they looked alike and both had red hair. My little brother, Ralphie, was in first grade, and Ozzie, whose real name was Oswald, was a

bathing suits and plopped down on the lawn next to me and Ozzie.

So we were all there, except Ozzie’s puppy, Gus. Ozzie had Gus since the beginning of that summer, and we played with Gus every day.

We all loved Gus and Gus loved us. A couple days before, Gus had bitten the pool boy.

“Where’s Gus?” I said.

that, okay?” I said. “He wouldn’t understand.”

Ozzie nodded.

Judy jumped up and shouted, “Well, let’s not just sit here. Let’s play house.”

“We’re too old for that,” I said.

“Yeah, we’d have to sleep together and do stuff,” said Tommy.

“Kids see more and know more than adults think they do. And kids have a brave creativity that gets beaten down by the relentless pressure of conformity. I couldn’t write today what I wrote then.“ year older than me. He was in sixth grade. The five of us played together every day. Our backyards kind of all ran together, and our mothers could shout and call us all home no matter whose yard we were in when it was suppertime or getting dark.

It was the third week in August, only two weeks before school would start. Ozzie and I were sitting under the oak tree in my backyard.

Ralphie was trying to ride his new two-wheeler in the driveway. We could hear Tommy and Judy splashing in their aboveground pool next door.

Then they came running over in their

22.

“Gone,” said Ozzie. “My parents found a nice farm couple to take him.”

“Wow, that was fast,” said Tommy.

“It’s okay,” said Ozzie. “I understand.”

A farm couple. I didn’t believe it. I looked at Ozzie and shifted my body closer to him under the tree. “So what do you think?” I said quietly.

“I think,” said Ozzie, “that my father is lying. Gus is just gone. It happened like one day after he bit that guy.”

“Don’t tell my brother

“What stuff?” queried Ralphie innocently.

“You know, kiss and wrestle,” explained Judy.

“What do you mean, wrestle?” demanded Ralphie.

Ignoring Ralphie, I said, “Okay, I’ll say I’m not sleeping with Ozzie because he was drunk last night.”

“What’s drunk?” Ralphie questioned.

“I was not drunk,” said Ozzie, laughing and playing along. “I had twenty-two beers but they were light beers.”

Waiting in the Cincinnati Airport - Peter Obourn Judy and Tommy went home to dinner, leaving Ozzie and me sitting under the oak tree. Ralphie was turning cartwheels or something.

“I guess we don’t play house anymore,” said Ozzie, “because we’re beginning to understand what goes on behind the closed doors in each other’s houses.”

“Why do they lie so much?”

I asked. “There’s so much stuff they don’t tell us. I mean, I’m noticing they lie about a lot more than the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. It’s hard to know whether anything they say is really true.”

“I think they lie to each other,” said Ozzie.

Ralphie came over to where Ozzie and I were sitting. “When is Gus coming back from that farm?” he said. Ozzie and I looked at each other.

“I’m not sure, Ralphie,” replied Ozzie. “But I talked to the farmer just this morning, and Gus is having a wonderful time on the farm.

There are a couple of other dogs there, and the dogs all play together and have a lot of fun.”

Ralphie ran off.

“I guess we lie too,” I said.

Ozzie thought a minute, then said, “I suppose. But I had to, didn’t I?” But there was more to it than that. There are little white lies, but then there are other lies, making it complicated. It seemed to me that our parents lied to us, to each other and even to themselves. It was what adults did, and I wanted to understand it, so I wrote about it.

That night I wrote my first play, the one the man at the funeral was talking about. I still have the original manuscript. The next day I took it over to Ozzie’s house. We got Cokes and sat on the swing on his front porch.

“You wrote this?” he said.

“This is really cool.” He read it over again, then he slapped his leg and

stood. He walked to the porch railing, carrying my manuscript, and looked out at the end of summer.

He turned to me. “This has to be performed.”

“How?” I said. “By who?”

“It’s all right here. You’ve already got the cast. In your attic. It’s perfect. We’ll make scenery and stuff and do it just like you wrote it.”

“Ralphie can’t be in a play.

He’s only in first grade. And there’s a dog in the play. We don’t have a dog.”

“Trust me, Georgina. We can do this. And Ralphie will be the star of the show.”

So we did. We formed a theater company called The Ivy Street Fifth Grade Players. All five of us were in the play. We were also the stage crew. The scenery was mostly cardboard except some props, like an old telephone and some books.

Everyone got excited. We told our parents it was a surprise for them and they got into it. My mother made a curtain that we could open.

Using cardboard, we made the props we needed: a barn painted white; a pitchfork painted white. Ozzie’s mother made me an Easter Bunny outfit and dog ears for Ralphie. We practiced it in the yard under the oak tree.

Finally, on the Saturday afternoon of Labor Day weekend, we had the premiere of Goner. Ozzie printed out the program. All our parents were there, about twenty kids from around the neighborhood, and a few assorted moms or dads. It was standing room only in my attic. It was a hot day, especially in an attic. I handed out the program. Here’s what is said: GONER A play in two acts by Georgina Beatrice Shaw Produced and directed by Oswald Farnsworth

Cast Barbara Bikini—played by Judy Johnson Goner (a puppy dog)—played by Ralph Shaw Pablo the pool boy—played by Tommy Johnson Farmer Fantasy—played by Oswald Farnsworth The Easter Bunny—played by Georgina Shaw Act I The Bikinis’ backyard swimming pool Act II Farmer Fantasy’s Barnyard We performed the first act in front of the curtain. There was a cardboard box in front of the curtain with an old telephone sitting on it.

In the first act, Judy came out in front of the curtain in her bathing suit and said, “Oh dear, the swimming pool has yucky green scum again, so I had to call Pablo, and he’s coming right over to fix it.”

I was standing offstage, watching from the side. I could see both the actors and the audience. It’s hard to explain how excited I was to see my creation, to be backstage as I watched my work come to life on the stage.

Then Ralphie came out on all fours like a dog, yipping and yapping with his dog ears flapping, running in a circle around Judy and jumping around in front of the curtain. Then he ran under the curtain and came back out from the other side. The audience laughed and the kids screamed.

“Oh, Goner,” said Judy, “can’t you just settle down for one minute?”

Of course, Ralphie didn’t settle down. He turned out to be the star of the show. He was a natural actor. No stage fright at all. If you closed your eyes, you would swear it was Gus. Ralphie mimicked perfectly

23.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 Gus’ yapping sound, his panting and jumping and licking. Watching was even better because he just made you know he was the puppy dog, little Gus, that everyone loved. The audience loved him. I called him Goner in the play.

Then Tommy came onstage in his “pool-fixing outfit.” He was carrying a plunger. Tommy and Judy started laughing and giggling together, and Tommy started tickling Judy, and Judy said, “Oh, Pablo, stop tickling me.” Just then Ralphie came out from under the curtain, growling and snarling. He jumped on Tommy and knocked him down, still growling.

Judy tried to grab Ralphie, screaming, “Stop, Goner. Stop biting Pablo.”

Then they all stood up, separated and bowed. Judy said, “That’s the end of Act I.” Everyone clapped and some kids cheered. The kids were laughing but I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were looking at each other and talking, and I heard him say, “What’s with the tickling business?” She was not smiling.

We had made a barn and a pitchfork out of cardboard and painted them all white so that we could open the curtain for the second act and show the white barn in front of a white sheet. We pulled the curtain open and everything was white.

Ozzie came out dressed all in white overalls, holding a white pitchfork, and then Ralphie came bouncing out with his dog ears. He was not dressed in white but everything else was, and the audience was struck into silence by what they saw. It was really kind of weird, and that’s what I intended it to be, like another world.

So Ralphie was running around the stage, yipping and yapping like before, and Ozzie, who was Farmer Fantasy, said, “It’s nice to have you here, Goner. I love having dogs around—especially cute and lovable ones like you.”

Then I came out in my white bunny outfit, and the farmer said,

24.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the Easter Bunny,” I responded.

“What makes you think you’re the Easter Bunny?” Farmer Fantasy needled.

I turned to Ralphie and remarked, “Oh, hello Goner. I didn’t know you were here. I thought you were at the Bikinis’ house.”

“No,” said Ralphie. “I got into a little trouble there.”

Then Farmer Fantasy scratched his head under his white straw farmer’s hat and said, “What is going on here? What is this talking Easter Bunny and this talking puppy?

Boy, do I need a drink.”

And that’s as far as we got because Ozzie’s father stood up and said, “Stop. This play is over.” Mrs. Johnson was crying and Mr. Johnson was already walking down the attic stairs.

Everyone left.

Farmer Fantasy and the Easter Bunny sat on the attic floor in front of the white barn. The Easter Bunny cried. It was a disaster.

I received no sympathy from my mother. I was lying on my bed crying, still in my bunny outfit, when my mother stormed into my bedroom. She stood over me, next to the bed, with her hands on her hips. “Georgina, I am really upset,” she declared. “Poor Mrs. Johnson is in tears and Mr. Johnson is furious. I think Ozzie’s father is also distressed.

I don’t know what you think you were doing, but you have really upset our neighbors. I hope you will think about this long and hard. I want you to stay here in your room. Your father will be up to have a serious talk with you.”

I heard my father come into the room as I lay with my face down.

He sat and patted my head. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I said into my pillow.

“Sorry?” he said. “Georgina, this is the proudest day of my entire life.”

“What?” I said, turning my tear-streaked face toward his soft smile. “But Daddy, we didn’t even finish. Mrs. Johnson was crying. Mr. Johnson was really mad. So is Ozzie’s father, and Mom is really upset.”

“Of course she is. They are all upset. They should be. Your mom will get over it. Don’t you see, Georgina, you reached them. You moved them. Not many playwrights, as hard as they try, do that. And you did.” *** I look up at the giant airport screen. My flight is boarding. I settle down in my window seat and watch Cincinnati and the Ohio River get smaller and smaller, then disappear in the clouds.

I know that Goner was only one of countless plays that close the same day they open, one of many that never even finish the first performance. But getting shouted off the stage is an experience that never leaves you. Over the years, I’ve thought about it now and then, in quiet moments when I’m alone with my memories, like today.

The only member of the audience who appreciated my genius was my father. I love him and that gave me a warm feeling that has lasted all these years. And he was right. My mother did get over it.

I still think it was a good play.

Kids see more and know more than adults think they do. And kids have a brave creativity that gets beaten down by the relentless pressure of conformity. I couldn’t write today what I wrote then. Although I couldn’t explain it back then, I see now that I was striving to achieve the goal of all playwrights: to create art, to make the play come alive, to strike the perfect ratio between the real and the true. And I came close but I didn’t quite find the perfect ratio. The real and true can be too strong for some

Waiting in the Cincinnati Airport - Peter Obourn audiences, and then the true artist is vilified by those from whom she seeks praise.

Some things did change.

We never saw the pool boy again. A new puppy for Ozzie showed up that Christmas. So the only real tragedy was Gus. But there was, for me and for Ozzie, another sort of tragedy. Nobody else in the cast or the audience, not even my father, understood what Goner was about.

My father thought it was a simplistic morality play. I suppose on one level it was. But deep down, Goner was what all art is about: Truth.

And in that summer before fifth grade, I knew what that was.

I’m not sure I still do.

25.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Killing the Conch David Obuchowski

I

t was low tide and the orange sun was setting behind them when their eleven-year-old son, Jason, wandered out into the shallow surf and pulled the pink conch from the foamy sea. Ocean water poured from its smooth curves. The shell was as big as a football, and between the distance and his blurred vision, Ryan thought it looked something like the decapitated head of a king or a prince, still wearing his crown.

“Dad!” Jason called excitedly. “Dad!” “Bring it here,” Ryan called back. He took a step toward the water to meet his son, but the dry sand seemed to shift beneath his foot, and he staggered. His wife tried to catch him by the arm, but her reflexes were just as impaired as his own, and she succeeded only in adding to his imbalance. He fell over on his side with a grunt. “Christ, Beth!”

She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely through her laughter, and waved her hands to indicate she was helpless.

“The fuck?” he asked her accusingly. He sat himself up in the soft, white sand, which looked almost like sugar.

26.

hole.”

She stopped laughing. “I was trying to help, ass-

“Well, you pushed me over,” he said with angry embarrassment. “And if you want to help, well, go on.”

He held up his hand.

She grabbed it firmly, but unaffectionately and pulled on him. He ungracefully and unsteadily rose to his feet and started brushing the sand off the back of his shorts.

“Maybe you had too many margaritas,” she told him, her brow furrowed.

“I had three, Beth. Same as you.”

“Why are you counting how many drinks I drink?” she shot back defensively.

“I wasn’t!” he yelled back. “It was printed on the goddamn bill!”

They were interrupted by a meek voice. “Guys, look.”

“What, Jason?” Ryan snapped, having entirely forgotten about the conch. But now, seeing his son holding out the giant shell like some kind of offering, he calmed himself. “Oh. Right. That’s a great find, bud.”

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski “That’s amazing, Jason,” his mother said to the boy in a voice so overly sweet, it almost sounded as if she were mocking him.

“Can we bring it home?” he asked, looking at both of his parents with pleading eyes. Overhead, seagulls circled and screamed.

Beth looked to her husband.

Her hair—which had once been deep brown, but long ago bleached and dyed blonde to match the hair color and style of Dakota Reed, the host of her favorite news program—whipped across her face in the sea breeze. She pulled it back from her eyes with her nails, the length of which had been supplemented by extensions, and professionally painted in red, white and blue stripes, then finished with a scattering of clear rhinestones like tiny diamonds. But her efforts were futile. The wind persisted, and her hair blew back across her face, revealing brown and gray at the roots between her layers.

With his family looking to him to give the go-ahead, Ryan felt a pleasing sense of power. “Absolutely you can,” he told his son. It occurred to Ryan that such a conch would make quite the trophy. Others would have photos on their phones and things bought from gift shops, but a seashell like this was truly special.

He imagined having neighbors over for cocktails. Someone would make a remark about what a lovely shell it was. They’d ask Beth where she bought it, and she’d flip her hair a bit and answer breezily that they didn’t buy it; they found it on a summer trip, where they rented a beach house which cost nearly three thousand dollars per week—worth it because it was right on the sand.

“Is it legal to take those home?” Beth asked with a raised eyebrow. Her tone suggested she had less concern for the actual law, and more for challenging Ryan.

“It’s fine, Beth.”

But Beth ignored him. She

pulled out her iPhone—the case of which was decorated, like her nails, in faux diamonds—and quickly closed Facebook Messenger, where it appeared Gordon Tremell had sent her a few messages, complete with emojis of hearts and peaches. She was especially eager to read those, but now was not the time. She searched the internet for any information about whether or not it was legal to remove conches from Florida beaches. There were too many results to try to sort through them all, so she read the first one aloud: “It’s illegal to take the shell if it still has the conch inside.”

“Why’d you even bother to ask me?” Ryan grumbled. “Here,” he said to Jason impatiently. “Come on, give it here. Let me look.” He snatched the shell from his son, surprised by how heavy it was, and looked inside. From the smooth, pink opening partially emerged a brown creature that looked something like a slug. “There’s something in here, but it’s dead,” he lied. “Come on, we gotta get back and start packing.”

Beth was an animal lover.

All kinds of animals. Not just dogs and cats, but things like alligators and ostriches and sharks. She spent hours watching reality shows about people and their bizarre, exotic pets. She watched countless videos of tanned, muscular men rolling around with regal lions and majestic tigers, hugging them... apparently taming them. These strong, fearless, affectionate men stood in stark contrast to her own husband who seemed either annoyed by or afraid of any animal, including their golden retriever and chocolate lab.

Ryan was not only irritated by animals, but also by his wife’s obsession with them. She was always suggesting they get another dog, and was constantly shoving her phone in front of his face to show him some so-called adorable photo or video of someone’s pet. Her love of animals didn’t translate to buying cruelty-free

cosmetics, or even prevent her from indulging in the occasional fur. But she acted like she was Saint Francis all because she insisted they buy the most expensive puppies from the most highly regarded breeder. Who knows what she’d say if she knew the conch was alive? She might not consider it a real animal at all—after all, it was a goddamn slug in a shell, not a near-extinct white tiger. But if there was even the slightest chance she was going to read him the riot act for taking a live conch from the sea, it wasn’t worth letting her know the truth about it being alive.

He led the way back to their rented SUV, careful to keep his balance. He turned briefly and said to his son, “Good find, Jayce.” His son may have been the one to pluck it from the sea, but it was his shell now.

They wouldn’t even be at the beach if it weren’t for him and the money he made, and they wouldn’t be keeping the conch if it weren’t for him and his approval and his decisive lie that the conch was dead.

Jason smiled back at his father. But in that smile, there was the faintest shadow of disappointment— he knew full-well that he’d lost the conch.

Beth took a few hurried strides to catch up to the boys, and nearly tripped in the process. “Dammit, these shoes are impossible to walk in,” she said before Ryan could make any of his own observations about why she may have lost her balance. “You okay to drive? Want me to drive?”

“Beth, we’ve both had the same amount to drink. Difference is that I’m fifty pounds heavier and half a foot taller. I’m hardly buzzed anymore.”

Relieved to not have to risk another DUI, she scratched him affectionately between his shoulder blades. “Thanks, babe. Sorry I got snappy back there. You know me, I get crabby when vacation’s over.”

He tucked the shell into the

27.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 crook of his left arm, like a running back carrying a football. He was on the cusp of reaching out with his right hand to give her a pat on the ass but he immediately realized she might take that as some sort of a come-on, and so he pulled his hand back before he could make contact. He hadn’t been able to get an erection with her in about a year and a half. He’d seen the commercials for Viagra. He’d watched the ads that mentioned a condition they called “low-T.” He’d promised her it was just stress, but then a month without sleeping together turned into two, which turned into four and they seemed to have gradually and contentedly drifted into having a sexless marriage. Of course, he was entirely unaware that she’d been having an ongoing emotionallyand even erotically- charged online correspondence with a man who claimed to be both a marathon runner and a veteran of the Gulf War. Ryan put his hand on her shoulder briefly and removed it.

She glanced at him, a little puzzled, but said nothing.

From the shell, there was a faint clicking sound. Or, at least, he thought there was. But no one else seemed to hear it.

Ryan put the conch in the trunk of the car, away from where Beth or Jason could see it or hear it.

It was only about a three-mile drive from the beach to the house they rented, which was also on the beach but not near any bars or restaurants.

A straight shot with no turns. All he needed to do was not speed, and not blow through any stop signs or red lights. But where driving straight and within the speed limit seemed practically second nature when he was sober, the task required far more concentration after the drinks he’d had that evening: three beers before dinner, three margaritas with dinner.

He seemed only able to focus on one thing at a time—keeping the car within the lines without any swerving,

28.

or keeping it at a constant speed at or just below the speed limit, or looking at the road signs and pedestrians. But doing all three at once felt practically impossible in his current state.

“Give me a heads up on any peds,” he mumbled to Beth.

“Peds?”

“Pedestrians. Crossing the street, I mean. People coming off the beach and crossing the street.”

“Got it,” she said. “How fast you driving?”

“Uhhhh,” he had no idea. He took his eyes from the road to check the digital speedometer. “Twenty two.”

“What’s the speed limit?”

“Twenty five, I think.” It was a best guess.

“That’s all?”

“Beth—” he started to say, but stopped when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a white Dodge Charger dart from the sandy shoulder of the road. He tried telling himself that it might not be a cop.

It was a common car, after all. Or, perhaps, even if it was a cop, it was just headed in the same direction as they were at the exact same time. He stole another look into the rearview.

The car swerved slightly.

“Steady,” Beth whispered.

From within the grille of the Charger, blue and red lights began flashing.

“Fuck,” Ryan said. “We’re getting pulled over. Follow my lead.

Understand?” His mind immediately began racing. Among the many thoughts: why didn’t I let Beth drive? She doesn’t have a job to worry about, and she already has a DUI. Beth began breathing rapidly like she might be having a panic attack.

“Beth, I swear to God,” he said through clenched jaws and with a vaguely threatening tone, as he eased the SUV onto the shoulder.

“We getting pulled over?”

Jason asked innocently.

“Looks like it, bud,” Ryan said, doing his best to sound unworried. He put the car in park and lowered the window halfway and watched the officer in his rearview as he typed some information into a computer.

“Gum,” he whispered without turning his head to Beth. “Slip me a piece of gum.”

She pulled a pack of Arctic Ice from her purse and put two of the white squares into his palm. Ryan slipped the gum into his mouth and within moments, his tongue was practically numb with menthol. He knew it wouldn’t trick a breathalyzer, but he hoped it would at least cover up some of the alcohol on his breath.

The officer exited his Charger and ambled toward the SUV. “Here we go,” Ryan whispered, doing his best to project calm and confidence, all the while trying not to break down and cry and beg not to be arrested for drunk driving. Such an arrest would be a termination-worthy offense at his work, where executives all had to sign a code of conduct that specifically forbade misdemeanors or felonies involving drugs, alcohol, assault, destruction of property, theft of property and a litany of other infractions.

“Evening,” the officer said from slightly behind the door. A safety thing, Ryan assumed. It was awkward, but at least it put the police officer out of direct line of his breath.

“Good evening, officer. How can I help you?”

“This your car?” the officer inquired, as if he already knew the answer to the question. He looked to be about Ryan’s age, except that the officer’s body was lean and muscular, whereas Ryan’s body had become soft and swollen since his skinnier days in college when his metabolism easily burned through the constant pizza, burgers, burritos and, of course, beer that it was fed. The cop’s skin was also

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski enviably tanned... as opposed to Ryan’s, which was red from a fresh sunburn. Ryan could smell the sunscreen on the cop, and now he regretted all the times he stubbornly refused the stuff from Beth, who was endlessly slathering creams and lotions and cleansers into her skin under the delusion they reduced her copious wrinkles.

“Yes,” Ryan started to say. “I mean, it is until tomorrow morning. It’s a rental. We’re on vacation. Like everyone else, I’m guessing,” he said, trying for a bit of self-deprecation, but feeling immediately self-conscious that he was rambling.

The officer stooped down a bit, as though to get a better look at Ryan and Beth. A glossy brass rectangle pinned to the flap of his breast pocket bore his last name: GANNON. “You have the rental agreement?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Beth. Glovebox.”

She opened the compartment and snatched the rental paperwork out of it to set in Ryan’s lap. She then turned her head away, pretending to admire the sunset, but really to hide the worry on her face.

“License, too?” Ryan asked.

“Yes. And insurance.”

Ryan produced these from his wallet and held them out of the window. “Just wanted to let you know, our family, we all, really appreciate what you guys do. Big supporters. We’re from Michigan. I mean, obviously we are since I gave you a Michigan license,” he added awkwardly. “But, I mean, all over Michigan—but especially Detroit— well, I mean, you watch the news.

You know better than me.”

“Know what?” Officer Gannon asked flatly.

“About all the, pardon my French, bullshit you guys get for doing your jobs.” Ryan cleared his

throat, and then like he was giving the officer a secret password, he said, “We back the blue.”

“That right?”

Officer Gannon said, unimpressed.

Before he could answer, Jason lowered his window.

“Hi pal,” Officer Gannon said in a far more congenial tone.

“Hi,” Jason answered.

“You okay back there?”

“Yeah,” Jason answered indifferently.

“You on vacation with your mom and dad?”

“Yep.” “You like Florida?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you do,” Officer Gannon said. “What have you three been up to this evening?” he asked the boy.

“Ah, we’re just—” Ryan started to answer.

Gannon cut him off. “If you don’t mind, I’m asking the boy.”

“We had dinner and then we went looking for seashells.”

A wave of nausea washed over Ryan as he realized there was a strong possibility Jason might tell the police officer about the conch that was currently in the trunk, slowly suffocating.

“Find anything good?”

This was the moment things would start to come apart, Ryan realized. This was it. Why the fuck couldn’t the kid just sit there and keep his mouth shut? Why the hell did he choose right now to start striking up a conversation when, most times, he barely said a word to anyone?

But Jason’s answer was only an ambiguous, “Uh huh.”

“So where you going now?

Ice cream?”

“Ah! We should have done that, Beth! Ice cream! Wish we’d thought of that.”

“We had dessert at the restaurant,” Beth answered, her voice full of confusion, her face full

of fear.

“Right. I mean, we should have saved it. For after.”

“They had tiramisu,” she said in her quivering voice.

Ryan glared at her and she shut up.

“Where are you staying?” the officer asked Ryan in any icy tone.

“A house we rented. Just right up this road. 6230 is the house number.”

Gannon seemed to consider this particular piece of information, but gave no response to it. Rather, he asked Ryan, “Had a drink or two this evening?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, sir. My wife and I had a margarita.

And then, because they’re so damn good compared to what you get in Michigan, we split one. But I feel fine. I really do.”

“You know why I pulled you over?”

“It beats me,” Ryan said, doing all he could to keep his voice from shaking.

“You were going twenty in a forty-mile zone. Don’t you think that’s a little slow?”

“Okay, yes, and I can explain that. I told you, we’re leaving tomorrow. So we were just taking our time, enjoying the view before we had to head back to Michigan.”

“Driving twenty under the limit is just as dangerous as driving twenty over,” Officer Gannon told him.

“I can see that. And I apologize.”

“Is it hard being in the police?” Jason asked.

“Can be,” Gannon replied, sounding sincere. “But it’s worth it.”

“Cool,” Jason said.

“What’s your dad do?” the officer asked the boy.

“No idea.”

“Well that’s too bad,” Gannon chuckled.

29.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 “I’m a CIO,” Ryan said.

“The CIO of Michigan’s tenth largest corporation. Property development and investments.”

“Impressive,” he muttered sarcastically.

Ryan flushed. “No, I’m not bragging. I’m just saying because you asked and my son said he didn’t know.

I mean—” Gannon wasn’t interested.

“Look, if you’re staying at 6230, that’s less than a mile up. I’m headed that direction. You follow me. Long as you pull into the driveway of that house and don’t touch the car for the rest of the night, I think our business here is done.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Ryan said, and he stuck his hand through the window to shake it.

“No handshakes.

Safety protocol,” Gannon said, not at all sounding sorry about it.

“Of course. Of course. It’s a shame what you guys have to go through. Thankless job. But I told you, we back the blue, sir. Now more than ever.”

The officer handed back Ryan his license, insurance card and rental agreement and returned to his vehicle, but not before giving Jason a nod. A moment later, the blue and red lights in the grille of the Dodge Charger went dead. The car, kicking up sand from its rear tires, pulled back onto the road.

Ryan followed.

“Thank God,” Beth started to say, but Ryan cut her off.

“Not a word. You both almost blew it.”

“Excuse me, I think we all did great. Especially you, Jason,” she added with that same synthetically sweet voice she’d used on the beach.

“Thanks, Mom,” Jason grumbled.

“Let’s just get back to the house and then we celebrate,” Ryan said.

“Good call,” Beth said and let out a long, relieved sigh. “And I will definitely need a drink after that.”

30.

“That makes two of us. Now, let me drive.”

There was a stretch of silence, and then from the backseat, Jason said, “That guy seemed cool.”

Ryan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Beth squeezed her eyes as she lusted for a drink and the latest messages from Gordon Tremell. *** Beth made a beeline for the kitchen. She took two red Solo cups from a short stack, which had, earlier in the week, been a lengthy sleeve. It was at this moment—the moment when she was separating two plastic cups from each other—when she began to feel the weight of what had just happened, or rather had almost happened. She wasn’t familiar with the laws in Florida, but it seemed like a reasonable assumption that Ryan could have been put in jail overnight, that he could have had his license suspended, that they could have missed their flight home the next day, which would have cost them thousands in re-booking fees, that there would have been even more penalties for him driving under the influence because there was a minor in the car, that Ryan could have been fired, that they would have had to sell their house in the Heatherdale Gated Community, that they would have had to sell at least one of their four cars, that she would have had to get a job—doing what only God knew—and that the court might have even mandated an alcohol treatment program. The hypothetical consequences kept stacking up, and none of them seemed even remotely far-fetched. She clutched at the handle of the stainless steel refrigerator to steady herself.

“Beth, drinks! Make them stiff!” he called out loudly and proudly and punctuated his words with a loud clap of his hands.

Beth took a deep breath in through her nose. “Coming!” she called back. She grabbed handfuls of

ice from a twenty-pound bag in the freezer and dropped the ring-shaped hunks into the cups. Then she filled the cups halfway with the tequila from a 1.75-liter bottle of Jose Cuervo—their second of the week—and topped it with a pre-prepared margarita mix that was an electrified neon shade of green.

She stirred each cup with her finger and then rushed the drinks out to the TV room where Ryan was now waiting for her.

He took the cup happily and carefully, as if she were handing him something precious, something fragile, something that he’d been desperately missing—like a puppy, if he’d actually liked puppies. “Cheers,” he said affectionately and winked.

They pressed their Solo cups together and they each took a long gulp.

“Ahhhhhhhh,” Ryan said theatrically to indicate his satisfaction, and then he went in for another long pull.

“I needed this,” Beth said.

“Whatsa matter?” Ryan asked her, using his cockiest voice. “You worried I was going to get a DUI? Beth, I told you, we were going to be fine. If he breathalyzed me, I probably would have been fine. I mean, I was hardly buzzed. But there was no way he was going to give me a hard time.

He understood—we’re not the bad guys.”

“Oh, I see. You weren’t nervous, then,” she said and rolled her eyes.

His happy, cocky demeanor darkened but only by a shade. “I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t a little nervous.

But I’m just saying, he was on our side and we were on his, and there was a mutual understanding. You get a sense of things like that when you have a job like mine. I deal with big swingin’ dicks everyday, and they deal with mine.”

Beth felt assured by these words. She was even slightly turned on by them. This was the man she’d fallen in love with. Not necessarily charming and certainly not politically correct, but someone who told it like it was and

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski knew how to act like a big shot.

“We got through it, no harm done.” He held his drink aloft, and then knocked the rest of it back.

Beth did the same.

“Make us another round,” he said. “Jason’s playing video games, and I gotta deal with this conch.”

“What do you mean, ‘deal with it’?” she asked, sounding either

bank of the slow-moving river. Ryan’s father stepped back and pulled out a yellow Kodak disposable camera from the inside pocket of his brown Carhartt jacket. His father told him to pick up the catfish so he could get a photo, but as Ryan got near the thing, he saw how it appeared to be covered in mucous, and how its whiskers looked like slender worms. His father

hook, which had still been embedded in its lower lip, popped out, and the fish rolled into the wet mud at the edge of the water, where it seemed to gasp for breath as it made more of that eerie groaning, growling sound.

“I’m sure that’ll be a fine picture,” his father muttered sarcastically, and then kicked the catfish into the water

“It occurred to Ryan that such a conch would make quite the trophy. Others would have photos on their phones and things bought from gift shops, but a seashell like this was truly special.” suspicious or confused—Ryan wasn’t sure.

“Drinks, Beth.” *** When Ryan was a boy, the first fish he ever caught was a large, heavy catfish. With his father’s help, he managed to drag it from the water after a long fight, and it lay there, glistening in the sunlight on the muddy

sensed fear like birds sensed incoming storms. “Pick up the goddamn fish and show it who’s boss,” he commanded his son. Ryan feared his father more than any other creature, and so he did his best to do as he was told. The fish made some sort of terrible, low sound like something between a groan and a growl, and then it twisted in his hands, and then it stabbed him with a quill-like part of its fin. Ryan dropped the fish in a panic, and it bounced off the grass with a dull, thick thud. The

with his steel-toed boot.

Ever since that day, Ryan hated fish. Didn’t even like the ocean, really. For one thing, the saltwater burned his eyes. For another, he couldn’t stand walking in the water, where a crab might pinch his toe, or he might step on the jagged edge of a shell, or a jellyfish might float by, brushing softly against his skin like a whisper, but leaving an angry rash.

Ryan stood there at the utility sink in the laundry room at the base

31.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 of the beach house, his red Solo cup full of the bright green margarita perched next to him on the lid of the washing machine. He held the impressive seashell in his hand. Surely, he thought, the conch would be dead by now—dried out and suffocated.

But the brown slug-like creature was slowly moving, almost pulsing really, and there was still that faint ticking,

attached to their shells. But one result indicated intensely salty water would not only kill the creature, but dissolve its bond to the shell.

He headed upstairs to the kitchen, where Beth was sitting, phone in hand, at the granite-topped island.

Ryan snatched a cylindrical cardboard container of table salt from one of the cabinets. “Be right

was the first time he’d really noticed it. Unlike other logos or mascots, this girl wasn’t wearing some exaggerated smile, she wasn’t posing or mugging like the Coppertone girl. She was just a beautiful and placid young woman, content on her walk in the rain. A streak of anger slashed through him like a knife, and though he knew it was a silly thing to get worked up

“His mind immediately began racing. Among the many thoughts: why didn’t I let Beth drive?

She doesn’t have a job to worry about, and she already has a DUI.” clicking sound. He set the shell down inside the large, white plastic sink that bore the name “Li’l Tub” in printed blue letters. He took a drink, pulled his phone from his pocket and searched the internet for: tips on how to remove conch from shell. He hoped that the results would tell him that they simply came out or fell out or slid out on their own if left overnight. No such luck. Unlike a hermit crab, conches seemed to be

32.

back,” he mumbled before she could ask him what he was doing. On his way downstairs, he glanced down at the salt, which informed him by way of its slogan that, When it rains, it pours.

His attention turned to the famous logo that the Morton Salt Company used for its products—a girl wearing a short, yellow dress and holding an umbrella, walking through the rain as she spilled salt behind her. This

about, he couldn’t help it. Here he was in a $2,800-per-week beach house in Florida and he wasn’t content.

He was next in line to become CEO at his job and he wasn’t content. He made nearly $250,000 per year and that didn’t include his annual bonus or any of the options grants, but he wasn’t content. The more money he made, the more they seemed to spend.

There was always a credit card bill that

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski needed to be paid off, or a new car that needed to be purchased, or new devices for their son, or their complicated home entertainment system, which integrated with their home security system, which also coalesced with their kitchen and climate control system, all of which could be operated remotely from anywhere around the world. He would have assumed his power would have increased as he ascended the corporate ladder, but rather he felt constantly vulnerable. That evening was a perfect example—he couldn’t even have a few drinks and drive a couple miles without worrying his entire career would end in ruins all thanks to a cop looking to fill a quota.

He could name half a dozen people who were gunning for his job, who would love to see him fall, and six of those half-dozen people reported directly to him. Despite being their boss, he couldn’t fire them. They’d drag his ass into HR or sue the company.

And speaking of the company, all of a sudden it was his fault whenever the company underperformed by even half a percentage point or the shares fell in value. Being as high up as he was, he should have been able to tell people it wasn’t their business why or why not the company did something during a particular quarter, but it was like a constant interrogation from shareholders, from employees in town halls, from the CEO—and then there were the goddamn board meetings.

Beth said his title alone was worth the stress, but he suspected she was only talking about herself—meaning she was fine with the amount of stress he had to endure all so, whenever she had the chance, she could offhandedly mention how her husband was the CIO of a company. But even that could only go so far to please her. There was always a bigger house in a better neighborhood, a bigger diamond for a flashier ring. When it rains, it pours, indeed, he thought to himself, and he

hurried into the laundry room to take a nice long drink of his margarita.

He placed the conch in the utility sink, and could still faintly hear the clicking sound. He placed the plug into the drain and he opened the hot and cold taps. Ryan pried up the spout and turned the tube of salt over, and it flowed like a river.

When it rains, it pours. *** When the water was high enough to cover the entire conch, he shut the taps. When the raining and pouring of the salt had ceased, he tossed the spent container into a tall blue trash can. His drink was also empty, he noticed, so he went upstairs to make a new one.

“What’re you doing down there?” Beth asked him. Her eyelids were heavy and her speech was slurred. “Make me another one.”

Ryan took the cup from her and filled it with a fifty-fifty mix of the green stuff and the tequila. He did the same for his cup, not bothering to change the ice. “Giving the conch a saltwater bath. It cleans it.”

“Does it get the thing out of it? The sea creature thing?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you’re sure it’s dead?”

“Yes, it’s dead.”

“Sure?”

“Am I a fucking veterinarian, Beth? Am I a marine biologist?”

She was too drunk to really care about how he’d just snapped and swore at her. “Well hurry up so we can hang out. It’s our last night,” she slurred.

“I know it is,” he said, loudly and shortly. He was angry. He’d been angry looking at the stupid salt girl, now he was angry talking to Beth, and when he thought about how the cop pulled him over for doing nothing more than driving cautiously, he was angry about that, too. He tried

picturing the cop, but the details of his face had already faded. That had been happening a lot lately—things he saw, things he did, things he said, they just didn’t stick in his memory. His old doctor had the audacity to suggest it might be linked to the volume of alcohol Ryan consumed, but Ryan shut that theory down immediately by pointing out how he was more professionally successful than ever, which was a sign that his mind was operating at peak performance.

Then he promptly switched doctors.

Anyway, the cop. He couldn’t picture him exactly, and he couldn’t quite recall the name engraved in the brasscolored tag on his chest, either. Was it a Spanish kind of name? Greco or Garcia or Gara maybe? He thought it might have been. Yes, now that he thought about it, the officer’s face came back into focus. His skin was tan. No. Not just tan. It was dark, like maybe he was Mexican or Cuban or maybe even partly Black or maybe all Black, but just lighter-skinned. It all made sense now. It was a classic case of reverse racism, of harassment all because he was white, his wife was a blonde, and they could afford a $2,800-per-week house on the beach. Ryan flushed with rage. “Unbelievable,” he said, clenching his fist.

“Tequila makes you angry,” Beth said in her “I’m just teasing” tone.

“No it doesn’t, Beth! Christ!”

Ryan stormed off back downstairs so he could finish with the conch.

But it appeared the conch had not at all been poisoned or killed by the saltwater. Quite the opposite: it was revived. The conch had moved itself all the way to the back corner of the sink from the center, and the slug-like creature on the inside was stretching itself out, moving around as if searching for a snack.

He almost plunged his hand into the water to grab the thing and yank it, but the thought of putting his

33.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 fingers on that slimy animal was too much. Plus, he wondered, did a conch have teeth, or some sort of mandible that it used to crack open other, smaller sea creatures also in shells? Surely if it could pierce a crab’s shell or cockle, then it would be enough to break his skin, and who knew what kind of venom or toxin it might carry?

He took a drink of his margarita, the cold, green liquid sloshing out at both corners of his mouth so that it dripped onto his blue t-shirt, which sported the name and logo of the company he worked for.

Then he snatched the drain plug, and the water drained out rapidly with a burping sound. He looked around the room for something he could use that would be more potent than mere table salt. There was a small box of some powder called OxiClean. He wasn’t familiar with what that was, as he never did laundry, so he moved on to the next thing, which was a bottle of Tide Purclean. The bottle indicated it was “Honey Lavender.”

Whether that was the scent or the ingredients, he had no idea. Either way, he doubted it would be caustic enough. Then there was a bottle of fabric softener, but it was made by a company called Seventh Generation, and the label seemed to be designed with one thing in mind: convincing the consumer how natural the stuff was. So that certainly wouldn’t do the trick either, he figured. He took another drink and stepped back... and that’s when he saw it, underneath the sink, in a dirty white bottle that looked like it was purchased at least ten years earlier: a gallon of bleach.

He struggled to remove the child-proof cap, but he finally applied the correct amount of downward force and twisting torque to remove it. He turned the bottle over the sink, glugging it and splashing it into the plastic basin. The smell was overpowering, and there wasn’t nearly

34.

enough bleach to cover the conch, so he opened the taps to help fill the sink.

He saw that he’d forgotten to replace the stopper, and so he reached in and plugged it before any more of the water and bleach could drain out.

Without thinking about it, he wiped the back and front of his hand across the chest of his shirt. He took a drink of his margarita and, as he set it down, he noticed that the blue of his t-shirt was fading where he’d wiped his hand. Along with the color of the shirt itself, the bleach was also eating away the name of his employer.

“Fuck, goddamnit!” he spat and then he shut off the water.

“You okay?” a half-asleep voice called out from up the stairs.

“Yes, Beth, I’m fine! Go back to fucking Facebook!”

No response. Upstairs, Beth was having a moment of terror that, somehow, Ryan knew about Gordon.

She took a long drink to calm her nerves and tried to assure herself that it was impossible.

Downstairs, Ryan was feeling proud of himself for making a snide remark that had apparently landed.

There was a real sense of satisfaction that came with spreading the anger around. It did nothing to assuage his rage, but it was nice to know she was no longer happily tapping away on her phone with those ridiculous fake fucking nails of hers.

He took another sloppy swig of his drink and set it down hard on the lid of the washing machine, where there were several small puddles marking each place the drink had been set down before.

Inside the sink, the conch was doing something. It was still moving. But it wasn’t moving in that steady, determined way it had been in the saltwater. Now it was moving more erratically. It was pulling itself into the shell and then stretching itself out, and back in, and twisting itself around. Writhing. It was writhing

in there, Ryan observed. The clicking sound was louder now, urgent, like it was trying to call for help via Morse code. If it could scream, it would be shrieking right now, he thought to himself, and he was filled with a feeling of power. The conch would lose and he would win and he would return to Michigan with the shell, the trophy, and they would display it on the mantle in their Great Room, right next to their eighty-five-inch LED flatscreen television that was mounted to the wall like a Van Gogh.

Ryan took a long drink of his margarita, and the room swam for a moment. He set the cup down and then returned his attention to the conch. It was still. He shook the shell, and the creature didn’t stir.

Now it was truly dead. He pulled the plug on the sink and opened the taps to rinse the bleachy water away. He wiped his hand on his shirt, this time on purpose because, what the hell, it was ruined anyway.

He tried to take another drink, but there was no liquid left.

The ice clung to the bottom of the cup for a moment and then, an instant later, in a single clump it released, crashing down onto his face and onto the floor, which was finished in some kind of vinyl laminate made to look like hardwood but clearly not hardwood—not the kind of stuff that should have ever been installed in a $2,800-per-week beach house.

With the conch project finally nearing its end, he tried running up the steps two at a time like he did when he was a kid. But on his third leap, his toe caught the step, and he slammed down onto the staircase with such speed and force that he barely had time to put his hands out to catch himself. He expected pain, but there was none, though he could feel blood running down one of his shins and out of his nose.

“Jesus!” Beth said, as she came running over to see what the

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski noise was.

“It’s fine! I’m fine. These stairs are all out of whack. This house is a piece of shit. Fake wood floors.

We got robbed on this place,” he said.

“I’m gonna leave a bad review,” Beth said. “That’s ridiculous.

You are the CIO of a company and this place is costing us almost three thousand dollars for a week. That’s unacceptable. I’m leaving a review.

I’m—” and here she flinched a little as Ryan came to the top of the steps.

“Your nose is bleeding. Did you hit it when you fell—” “Jesus, of course not, Beth!” he said as he pushed past her and got a paper towel for the blood that was now running into his mouth. One of his front teeth hurt, too. And his lip.

Great, Ryan thought to himself, now I’ll have a fat lip in the morning. “It’s the saltwater and the salty air. It dries my nose out, makes it bleed. I’ll probably get a sinus infection when we get back,” he added.

“Are you sure? It looks—” “Beth!”

She stopped talking.

“You want a beer?” he asked her after a long sigh.

A look of relief softened her features. “I’ll drink a beer. Or wine,” she agreed.

“We don’t have wine.”

“Beer then.”

“Here,” he said, handing her a Michelob Ultra. It wasn’t their favorite beer, but it’s all they drank nowadays. They were both trying to be a little healthier. It was really something when it came to how many more calories and carbohydrates a Blue Moon or Shock Top had compared to something like Michelob Ultra.

“I wasn’t on Facebook, by the way,” she said, taking the beer.

“Fine,” he said.

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t care if you were on Facebook, Beth. You like Facebook.

Go on Facebook. What do I care?”

“Well you obviously care because you said something.”

There was no arguing that point. And even if there was, he didn’t have the mental energy to figure out whatever argument that might have been. “Don’t start,” he said.

“I didn’t start, Ryan. You did.”

He pulled the paper towel from his nose. It wasn’t done bleeding, but it was tapering. “Are you finished?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and her eyes fluttered like she might fall asleep right in the middle of her sentence. “Are you?”

“Yes.” “Fine,” she answered. “Are you almost done down there? We’ve barely seen each other.”

“Yes,” he said, and he returned to the basement, leaving her to nod off at the island. *** His nose had stopped bleeding and the conch was dead.

And that was good because it meant it certainly couldn’t bite him. He took a deep breath and girded himself for what he expected would be a quick but disgusting job. He reached into the sink to pull the dead creature from the seashell. At first, he gripped it lightly, expecting it to be as soft and weak as an earthworm, but it was a tougher, more rubbery feel. He pulled on it, but its skin was too slimy, too slick. He pinched it harder, trying to gain purchase, but still his fingers slid until they reached the tip of it, which popped like a giant brown pimple, spilling yellow and clear fluids onto the freshly bleached surface of the Li’l Tub. He punched the bottom of the sink in anger and considered what his next move was. It came to him after he chugged nearly half of

his Michelob. He ran back upstairs, being careful to not fall.

Beth was fully asleep at the island. He opened the silverware drawer as quietly as possible and pulled out a dinner fork and butter knife. Then, figuring he’d save himself another trip, he opened the fridge and got one of the last five remaining beers.

“Hi, Dad.” Ryan nearly dropped everything when he heard his son.

“Jesus! You scared me. Thought you were watching a movie.”

“Playing video games.”

“Done already?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s only been about a half hour!” he said, trying to sound amused instead of annoyed.

“It’s been like two hours almost.”

“Really?” For the first time since arriving back at the house, Ryan now noticed that night had fallen completely; it was totally dark outside.

“Huh. Well, I’m busy trying to get stuff ready for the trip tomorrow. You can play a little more if you want. Or watch another movie. Whatever.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s vacation.”

Jason almost turned to go back into his room, but then he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m getting stuff ready for the trip tomorrow, Jason.”

“Downstairs? All our stuff is up here, though.”

And once again, the anger that had been simmering broke through to the surface like some kind of bloodthirsty shark launching its attack on a surfer. “Jesus Christ, Jason, what are you, my boss?” he shouted. “I don’t need supervision!”

“Just wondering what...” he whimpered and stammered but he couldn’t say anything else.

The sound of his son’s little

35.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 voice was, for reasons he couldn’t identify, enraging. He clenched his jaw and, through gritted teeth, he growled, “If you don’t get back in that room and watch a movie, I’m gonna take that iPad and launch it into the fucking ocean.”

Jason dashed back into his room without answering as Beth continued to sleep on the island, one hand laid across her phone, the other hand gripping the beer can, which was covered in condensation. *** Ryan finished the rest of his open beer and, through his bleary, blurry eyes, reached out with his left hand to steady the conch in the sink. With his right hand, he plunged the dinner fork into the flesh of the already broken, dead animal within.

He pulled gradually, hoping to feel the creature slip from the inside of the shell. There was a moment where it felt to him as if it was working, but then, all at once, the fork pulled away from the shell as a large chunk of the conch was torn from the rest of its body. Ryan felt vomit rise in his throat as he saw the brown flesh pierced by the tines of the fork. He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, doing his best to quell the urge to throw up.

Without opening his eyes, he scraped the fork against the bottom of the sink in the hope of ridding the utensil of conch meat, unaware that, as he was doing this, he was smearing it against the white plastic, leaving chunks and streaks of it that, when he finally did open his eyes, looked to him like human shit. Once again, it took all of his strength and willpower not to vomit.

He opened the taps and scraped it all down the drain. The sink swallowed up the brown globs and made its now-familiar burping sound.

Ryan took the knife and jammed it into the opening of the shell, crudely slicing and prying. More black and

36.

yellow and clear fluids ran out of the smooth, pink opening, and more chunks of conch fell from the shell.

They lay in the sink like thick chunks of mucous that some cancerous patient had hacked up. His stomach groaned, and a layer of sweat pushed through the pores of his forehead, but Ryan persisted, and he washed it down. And then he filled the conch shell with water, and poured it out again and again, ridding its insides of any remaining flesh.

With all of the animal having been pried from its home and torn apart and washed away, Ryan felt exhausted. He cracked open the other beer and drank down a quarter of it.

Ryan smiled. He won. It was just a very splendid shell, clean as a whistle.

There was no visible evidence the shell had ever been inhabited. No one could accuse him of illegally taking a living conch from the sea home now. In fact, not even he could really remember doing so. He looked down at his chest and saw that, where it once was blue and proudly displayed his employer’s name, it was now nearly white from the bleach. Laundry mishap, he thought to himself.

He finished the rest of his beer and slipped his fingers into the now vacant space where the conch had been inside its shell. He walked slowly, somewhat unsteadily up the steps. Beth stirred from her sleep.

“This beer’s making me tired,” she said, her eyes still mostly closed.

“Let’s do a shot of something.”

Along with the conch flesh and blood, it seemed as if his inexplicable rage had been washed away. But in its place was not contentment or contrition. Just his usual resentments.

Of his job, of his wife, of his son, and all their attendant demands on him, of all of the things that stood in the way of his ultimate dream, which was to be by himself where he could drink as much as he wanted without anyone

noticing or asking a single thing from him. If heaven were real, that’s what it would be for Ryan: an empty bar where the drinks were unlimited and free and forever.

He poured two generous shots of tequila into two unused red Solo cups and handed her one. She lifted it, barely, and said, “Cheers” and they both drank the tequila down. There was hardly any left in the bottle now, so Ryan poured the rest, evenly, into the two cups, and they slugged them down.

“We haven’t had sex,” she said, sounding a little sad.

“Well, what—did you want to do it now? We still have to pack,” he reminded, speaking to her as if she were an intern who just made an idiotic suggestion.

“We could pack and have sex. It’d be nice to know we could at least go away on vacation and have sex.”

“Beth,” he said in his most condescending, dismissive tone.

“What? We could.”

She wasn’t letting it go, and that was bad. He thought about how awkward he would feel to be naked in front of her after nearly a year of them not being intimate. His body had only become more fleshy, his gut even more round, which only made his penis appear smaller by comparison. He’d always hated how small his penis was.

Back in college, all the other guys in the fraternity showered without any self-consciousness, and he couldn’t help but notice how well everyone else was hung. Ryan, on the other hand, showered at off-hours when he could be alone, and always made a point to have at least a towel around his waist every possible second.

“Come on,” she said, trying for a seductive tone but achieving only a somnambulant one.

He thought of how it would be, trying and failing to get an erection. She would tell him he drank too much, or say that he ought to see

a doctor, or make the observation that all of her friends’ husbands still wanted to have sex all the time. No, there was no way. “Why, Beth? Why are you all of a sudden so hot on having sex right here and now? So you can brag about it on Facebook?

Give it up, okay?”

Beth made no reply at first.

She merely stared at Ryan. It was an entirely blank stare. He was unsure of

she was snoring loudly.

Ryan looked at the large, empty glass bottle of tequila and then at his wife. If only there was some way to rid himself of her as easily as the conch, he thought. If only. If only there was something he could do, he thought over and over as he turned the heavy glass bottle in his hands. If only he could pour her out like salt in the rain, a big smile on his face and

Killing the Conch - David Obuchowski

tell them it broke and it almost cut his wife. Or better yet, his son. He would be incensed. He would demand a partial refund. He would threaten them with legal action. And if all that failed and he was made to pay for the door, who fucking cared? A sliding glass door couldn’t be more than a couple grand. He made that kind of money in two days, and that wasn’t counting stock options and bonuses

“Surely, he thought, the conch would be dead by now—dried out and suffocated. But the brown slug-like creature was slowly moving, almost pulsing really, and there was still that faint ticking, clicking sound.” what it might signify. Shock? Anger?

Would she burst out laughing? But after a few seconds, he saw her eyes well up with tears. She stood up, steadied herself and, for a moment, appeared to self-soothe. Then she dissolved into hitching sobs until she could finally compose herself just enough to attempt to speak the following words: “I swear to God I am going to leave you one day.”

And then she broke down more and staggered to the couch, holding her gut as if someone had punched her there. Less than three seconds later,

umbrella over his head.

With absolutely no forethought, Ryan threw the bottle as hard as he could into the sliding glass door that led to the deck, which overlooked the black ocean, filled with so many terrible creatures.

Beth kept snoring. In his room, Jason heard the crash and cowered under his covers. He knew well enough not to come out. In the kitchen, Ryan felt the sea breeze through the shattered door. He would tell the owners it broke on its own when he closed it. In fact, he would

and benefits.

Ryan slid the conch off the island and shuffled into the bedroom.

And though he would have no memory of it the next day, he spent the rest of the night packing their things. *** Ryan had only the slightest fat lip, but he had no hangover the next day. He never seemed to get hangovers anymore. Perhaps his body had simply become acclimated

37.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 to alcohol. Or, perhaps he was always hungover. Perhaps the hangover was his baseline for normality. Either way, he had no trouble getting up the next morning. He had no idea how Beth felt because they didn’t speak about it. In fact, they hardly spoke at all. Neither of them could remember anything that they specifically fought about or what was said the previous night. But they both knew well enough they’d had a fight of some kind. As for Jason, Ryan carried on normally with him, vaguely suspicious that they might have fought, too. But even that was unclear. He could remember being pulled over by a cop with a Spanish name for absolutely no reason at all except that they were white and the cop was Black. He had some strange images of himself struggling to kill the conch and remove it, but that could have just been a dream as much as a memory. Apart from that, there was there was no other mental record of the evening. Even after he’d seen the broken door that following morning and took in the still-intact tequila bottle which had been thrown through it, all he could do was grumble, “A door shouldn’t shatter like that,” as he plucked the bottle from the shards of glass and placed it gently into the recycling bin.

Sure, one could surmise the tequila bottle had been thrown through the door, but he had no specific memory of doing anything like that, and so he unburdened himself of the notion that he did.

As soon as they got home, Jason headed for the computer room. Beth opened a bottle of wine and, along with her phone, took the entire thing, without offering any of it to Ryan, into the bathroom where she sat in warm a bubble bath and sent flirty messages to the man who called himself Gordon Tremell and who described himself as a fifty-fiveyear-old veteran of Operation Desert Storm, but whose real name was

38.

Lucas Rose—a fifteen-year-old high school student in a competition with his friends to see who could seduce the most married women online.

Ryan made a vodka-Sprite in a thirty-two-ounce plastic cup and brought it into their bedroom where he proceeded to unpack absolutely nothing more than his own things.

Whether the clothes were clean or dirty, he couldn’t tell and he didn’t care—he put them directly into the hamper for Beth to deal with.

When he came to the blue shirt that had been ruined by bleach, he briefly considered keeping it for the rare time when he had a dirty job to do. But he decided he wanted no memento of that final night of their trip. He stuffed the shirt into the small wastebasket under the side table.

Finally, he removed a bundle of beach towels which enrobed the conch shell. After unwrapping each one, he came to the last and he could feel something wasn’t right. The conch shell had been much bigger than whatever was in here now.

He opened it, and found the shell had been crushed into thousands of slivers and shivers and shards. It was decimated, rendered completely unrecognizable. Only a two-inch length of the shell’s spire gave a clue of what it once might have been.

Ryan wrapped the towel back up around the remnants to keep them from spilling on the carpet— which was the color of the sand on the Florida beach—and tucked it under his arm. He picked up his large vodka-Sprite and took a long, long drink from it. And then he took another long drink from it. He looked down into the large white cup with its crystal clear liquid and crystal clear ice and he had a single, pure thought: “I love you.”

Along with his beloved drink, he walked downstairs and out of the house and into the sideyard, where there was a small area surrounded

on all sides by a white picket fence, in which they kept the garbage cans. He opened the gate and lifted the lid of the black garbage can, then emptied the towel into it, scattering pink pieces of the once-perfect conch amongst the rotting garbage from the week before last—reeking bags of dog shit and festering food scraps and tiny, empty plastic bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Tito’s vodka. Ryan regarded the beach towel for a moment, then tossed that in, too. It tumbled to the bottom, unfurling and covering the contents like a shroud.

Ext. Backyard Sallow Willow Timothy Knapp

T

his scene is the most important scene of the film. My hope—no, my expectation—is that this scene will develop with age, speak across generations and bridge the gaps between them. It will help people to grow into themselves and to love each other, humbled they will be by shocking revelations, and then reassured by their growth and by their love.

I want it to be frustrating and difficult to watch.

People will want to turn their heads, but they won’t quite be able to. They will be completely engaged, so entirely engrossed in the film by this point, and this scene will strike them as it jarringly opens. They’ll find themselves unable to turn their heads, and they’ll want to. It will stay with them for the duration of the film, replaying in their minds like grim trauma, and long after. They’ll think about this scene while the credits roll; they’ll be stuck in their seats and pensive. They’ll walk sullenly to their cars in the movie theater parking lot, replaying this scene over and over with every step. Over and over and its imprint will stay marked upon their senses. They’ll think about it on their drive home, over and over, and they’ll either talk about it or they’ll talk about nothing. Deep into the night

they’ll think about it, I swear to God, and they’ll lie awake in bed deciding whether or not to wake their sleeping partner to discuss it. They’ll close their eyes once, blink maybe, and it will be morning. They’ll be awake in the morning, unable to regret their sleeplessness for the deep personal truths that it allowed them to discover. Valuable sleeplessness in the wake of this goddamned fucking scene, shit.

Donny, my cinematographer, has a difficult job.

This scene is ugly, but Donny will make it beautiful. It will look beautiful despite its ugliness, and Donny understands this dichotomy. He even taught me the word dichotomy, but he wasn’t referring to this particular one. We were on the set of a shitty small film that we shot before things took off, and he used the word and then explained it to me. I’ve loved Donny ever since then.

When he moved to Los Angeles with his boyfriend Luis, the scumbag, I found them an apartment and got Donny some work to pay their rent. Before things took off. When he came to the set with a black eye, I said “Luis is a scumbag.”

Goddamned mothershitty scumbag, and I knew he

39.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 was a scumbag before things took off.

When I gave Donny the script, I gave him this scene first, and I watched him read it in front of me.

I watched his face contort, savored his short inhales of disbelief and saw his eyes go slowly to a distant place that contained the memories he hadn’t shared with anyone. And I knew he understood this scene.

the exact same spot. We were fucking thrown out.

Bill and Franny are terrible actors, but they’re perfect for this scene. Their lusty energy, muddled diction, shitty piss fucking acting will deliver this scene.

They have a ton of lines; they will deliver long-winded dialogue with unfocused verbosity, both of them,

deliberate elegance, exaggerating every movement, but moving very little.

I don’t want to please anyone with this scene, and Bill and Franny are not pleasing. Bill is constantly sweating, I swear, he must soak through four shirts a day on an inactive day. He wants to change his shirt after every take, asking with the

“I want it to be frustrating and difficult to watch. People will want to turn their heads, but they won’t quite be able to. They will be completely engaged, so entirely engrossed in the film by this point, and this scene will strike them as it jarringly opens.”

Donny was with me when I met Bill and Franny, my actors. We met them in a bar Downtown, and Franny was drinking like a maniac.

She was drinking goddamned heavily and asking strangers to buy her shots; Bill was in her line of vision, easily swayed, and unfortunately liquid. He bought all of us several shots and then threw up on the table. I knew I had to hire him. Donny helped a waiter clean the vomit—who even does that?— and then Franny smashed a bottle in

40.

and they won’t really engage each other. They won’t speak to each other in the traditional sense, but rather at each other or despite each other, sometimes even talking at the same time. They will create an unpleasant dissonance that muddles the content of their conversation, because it isn’t important. The dissonance is more important. The earache. It’ll be loud.

I want them also to be stilted, sort of stiff, and not moving like people usually move, but with painfully

same childish cadence “Can I change my shirt?” and I say “No.” His sweat sells his acting, I tell him, and by the fifth take he is drenched and acting with aplomb. The damp dark speckles under his sleeves catch the eye, and the darker damp blob on his chest suggests something divine. His back is a pool of holy water. Even in close-up, his nose glistens, and the sweat lets his bifocals slide to the tip. And he pushes them up so much that it’s fucking goddamned distracting.

Ext. Backyard Sallow Willow - Timothy Knapp Franny is beautiful and she smiles all the time without intending it. But she’s vulgar and rude, and her teeth are yellowed from smoking cigarettes since the age of eleven.

She’s never been in love, but Bill loved her immediately, since those shots in that bar Downtown. He doesn’t think anyone knows that he loves her, but he’s so damned fucking terrible at acting that everyone does.

Luis sometimes comes to the set, even though he isn’t welcome.

Franny is the only one who talks to him when he does, laughing at his terribly bigoted jokes with a dumb open-mouthed smile that shows her unpleasant yellow teeth, and Luis smiles back. Fucking scumbag, shitty fuckface, Luis.

This scene is an exterior scene, and the set is my backyard. It’s a small backyard, open to the air, but still tight and confined. A chain-link fence separates it from my neighbors’ almost identical backyards. I chose this space because of my sallow willow tree that looks as if it’s dying, and maybe it is. It has very little color and its lifeless limbs sag and take up most of my small yard. It’s the perfect space for this scene.

Franny and Bill will deliver their dialogue by the ugly tree, ducking vigilantly under the sagging branches, and speaking behind decaying leaves. I hope the neighbor’s infernally loud motherfucking dog will be barking nearby, because the earache is important. Donny will use a super-telephoto lens for several shots, to make the space even smaller and more compressed, and he’ll trudge around the actors intrusively with a Steadicam. There are two dolly shots that move past the actors, almost missing them, and the tracking will be short and very rocky because the yard is so small and unlevel.

I want uncomfortable closeups. I want Bill’s glistening nose to fill the frame for several seconds. I want

to see the inside of Franny’s strikingly large ears. Donny will get these shots and he’ll make them beautiful. The audience will feel physical pain. *** Luis arrives as we set up the scene, a tasteless smile on his face, and a goddamned case of expensivelooking beer under his arm. Bill stops his previous motion of swinging his torso back and forth, an attempt to air-dry, and Franny greets Luis with a restrained wave and glossy eyes.

Donny looks through his camera’s eyepiece, pretending to not see anything, to not even be there, and our sound crew probably farts and fucking breathes everywhere. We get into positions slowly, fucking slowly, and I call for positions several times.

We all stare for a moment, in our positions, at the willow tree that looks particularly lifeless. I look behind it at the gray sky. It’s fucking ugly. Fucking gray sky. Shitty scene.

Fucking goddamned movie. Scumbag motherdammit Jesus Christ. Fuck fuck fuck. This is important, this is important, fuck fuck fuck.

“Action,” I call, and it falls into place.

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Before the Crack Christopher Adams

T

hey had predicted it would start sometime after nine-thirty on Thursday, or before midday on Friday. Saturday lunchtime at the very latest.

The microwave buzzer broke Peter’s stare out of the corner window—the haze he’d settled into cut short by the heated beans.

His sniffling never ceased. If anything, it had gotten worse in the last week.

It was a natural counterpart to his “leaking,” and one of the most oppressive symptoms. But these were nothing compared to the attacks and, as Peter shuffled away from his windowsill, cocooning himself with bed sheets as he went, one such fit overtook him.

He was caught unprepared and far too slow in reaching for the handkerchief.

The aftermath was devastating. A vast and monstrous load of nasal mucus shot forth from each nostril, coating the hastily drawn bed sheets with thick pockets of human slime. The familiar bings of the microwave repeated themselves from the kitchen. The gaps in each note

42.

narrowing like a salesman at the doorbell, paying no mind to the obvious state of the occupant. Peter altered his planned course for the bathroom, scarcely acknowledging the cat as he shuffled by.

He blew into a ball of toilet paper and cleaned his face of excess. The shelf above the sink was cluttered with various medicines, tiny bottles and tablet sleeves. Aspirin, paracetamol, whiskey, Lemsip powder and a small bag of coke balanced themselves around the narrow edge. Several nicotine patches lay on the floor.

Peter tore open a Lemsip packet and scattered the contents into a cracked mug. Conscious of the spillage hazard, he filled it to just over halfway, well before the forked cracks began their ascent to the porcelain ridge. He agitated the cure with a toothbrush and what was left of the Glenfiddich before raising it to his face.

He knocked the mixture back with a single gulp and accompanying cringe. The sharpness provoked seven deep and increasingly severe coughs before settling into shorter and milder splutters. He swilled the mug out before removing his pants and taking a seat. Peter always

Before the Crack - Christopher Adams gathered his dressing gown on the right side of the body when passing a stool, the way girls tie their hair on a preferred side to show the better half of their face.

The low hum of the building’s boiler network moaned from behind the toilet. The vibration found its way through the loose fittings and untightened nuts and bolts of naked pipework. It crooned varyingly.

Pitch and volume rose and fell as if in argument. Paint had fallen away through years of reverberations and pockets of rot revealed crude fixtures of the building’s arteries beneath. To a guest, it would have looked unkempt, might have even put them off pissing entirely. But to its occupant, it was warm and enveloping. The faint murmurs and low moans created a familiarity and sense of calm motion for Peter. He often thought it must be what long-haul flights through the late hours felt like, with nothing but the powerful swirls of jet engines and thirty-five thousand feet separating you from the earth. It swallowed him into a little universe of safety, a sleeping octopus holding him and his little flat in a close embrace.

By the time he’d reached the kitchen and lit a cigarette, the beans had cooled. Peter silenced the bings and stirred the contents of his dinner, startling the cat with sporadic coughs and splutters under a thickening smoky haze.

Peter moved into his slippers, another deliberate habit of coziness he’d recently settled into. It always reminded him of stepping on that jellyfish as a child. A warm, gooey feeling that had become a necessity in the last two weeks.

The apartment building was always cold now.

The draft in the corridors snuck up on you like a mugger, and taking a shower was a serious risk.

Even under regular circumstances, the heating system was more of an abstract concept than a working

utility. The pipes clattered and flexed and railed, but to little effect—the block was old, cheap and uncared for.

Peter’s landlord was a real tight bastard. A short, rapacious Southerner in his late forties. He wore a flat cap indoors all year round and spoke every sentence as though it were a favor. Even before the announcement, he’d reduced the heating allowances and would permit no more than sixty minutes in the evenings. Peter could tell how bad it had gotten by the way Percy scuttled with such electricity across the kitchen tiles, searching for warmer climes on the carpet.

Peter exhaled a cloud of Benson and raised a spoonful of beans to his face.

The kitchen and lounge of the flat were shared and there was a short corridor that led to Peter’s own room. The general space was small and cluttered. Human occupation evidenced itself on most surfaces and the room wore an intrusive suggestion of body odor and masturbation.

Peter’s parents always said the space suited him and that his flatmates seemed nice.

On this night though— despite the pipework and the bings and the sniffling and the octopus and the cat—the flat was quiet.

Thoughts of the half-eaten pasta salad, or something else that might gratify, floated listlessly above Peter’s head. He might have made spaghetti or lasagna if he had the ingredients, but going out would only aggravate his condition. Besides, he knew there was little point in filling the shelves now.

Peter switched on the television. It was a nondescript copy of a superior brand. Nineteen inches across and supposedly HD-ready for films and video games. Peter didn’t care much for movies and hadn’t played a video game for at least fifteen years, but his sister had installed a home cinema system in her new

place and his flat needed furnishing at the time. James, Sarah’s husband, wanted a full surround sound system and eighty inch plasma with 4K dynamic coloring when they got their new place.

They were probably all sat in front of it right now, which would be nice for them.

So Peter ended up with their old telly because anything that filled space and came without charge was happily received at the time. In any case, Peter felt as though he had gotten a lot more out of the thing in the last week at least.

He began thumbing the plus button and strangers came and went from the screen. The world outside appeared and disappeared though endless avenues of sight and sound.

It was somewhere in between sitting down, taking the last life of the cigarette and listening to the strangers in his room that it happened as it always did.

Peter had never been a television person, but the time he’d recently spent with it had birthed in him an entirely new outlook. He could see why it worked so well. It felt like sitting in a lukewarm bath.

The experience no longer brought about any pleasure, but you also had no inclination to get out. The screen could be an hour-long broadcast of the color beige as far as he was concerned. It didn’t really matter what was on, as long as it passed time.

That was the trick to television, he’d learned.

So Peter watched the same old stuff told to the same old world.

Noises and color stealing away time before anybody could realize it was missing. A trick coin fooling a passive viewer, spinning indefinitely through a static axis.

He sat alone with it because the cat wasn’t interested in the news and Peter could understand why.

It hadn’t changed for the past seven months.

43.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 Endless news broadcasts, documentaries, debate programs, daily briefings, lifestyle shows and reality TV had become a tired barrage of believers, deniers, proclaimers, screamers, weepers, fatalists and crazies—all filling their last pockets of time with theory, conjecture, jargon and noise.

As a rule, Peter tried to stay away from all of that. He didn’t want it to take root any more than it would have to. But since he’d been bedridden for the last week, he had no choice but to stay up to date on topical issues.

Peter settled the changer on one of the main terrestrial channels and gathered the remaining beans on his spoon. A red-haired, good-looking news reporter was interviewing a family on their preparations, it seemed.

Their house was unreasonably large and offensively clean. Peter thought of changing channels, but the trick coin was gaining momentum somehow. He did away with any thought to switch off. Besides, the other channels would only be showing the same sort of thing.

The family appeared happy enough.

The children looked like they were from designer catalogues and had all their real teeth. The kitchen seemed chiseled from a single block of the most fashionable marble and the garden was an Elysium.

All the things people hope for.

They spoke about togetherness and what was really important and the whole spectacle was ridiculous to Peter. A violent fit of coughing nudged any of its intended effect from his mind and several beans escaped his mouth to find the bowl again.

The final scene was shot outside the house, taking in all the impressive prospects. The parents had their hands on the kids’ shoulders

44.

and said they would spend the day cycling as a family and preparing a home-cooked meal.

Peter reached for his cigarettes. The cat was gnawing at the drywall in the next room.

Something was building in Peter’s stomach. He hadn’t seen his mother for weeks and had canceled his last golf game with his father to see Eve. I can’t risk giving it to them was one of the very good reasons he hadn’t seen them.

He was sure it was for the best. Mother suffered from terrible asthma during the winter and giving her something nasty wouldn’t be fair at a time like this.

Peter opened the fridge door and a beer spilled from its place. As he felt the foam of angry fluid gush into his mouth, he became aware of a faint but steadily building noise from the world downstairs.

It sounded like the beginning of a football match a few miles off.

From his vantage point at the corner window, Peter could see something certainly was happening down there.

The city was coming alive with people. If he had his binoculars, and if the light were not fading so fast, he would have been able to distinguish faces. The side streets and alleyways burst like swollen tributaries as people flooded into the main square.

For what might have been the two hundredth time that week, thoughts of Eve were burrowing into his brain again.

After the news credits rolled, a message announced there would be an alteration to the regular viewing schedule. The nice voice spoke with a conscientious and apologetic manner.

Peter thought it was the type of voice you’d like on a girl your parents would meet, but not one you’d like to hear whilst fucking. He wanted to share this thought but wasn’t totally sure how the cat would take it, so kept it to himself.

She announced, “Due to technical difficulties, tonight’s regular schedule of Celebrities on Ice has been canceled. Up next is a summary of the day’s main developments. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“At least that’s something,” Peter reciprocated to the lady, but she had gone.

With that, Peter switched off the television and resumed a lazy stare out into the world from his corner.

Not long now.

His gaze alternated between the sky above and the people below.

He thought about how many of them were looking up like him, or looking at each other looking up like him.

The sky hadn’t changed.

It had been that way for a good while now. Clouds occasionally drifted across it, briefly hiding the imperfection before passing. The line had grown more distinct in the last few weeks, but the faint shimmers of light surrounding it were still weak and colorless.

Peter wasn’t an indolent or disinterested man. In younger days, he’d had quite a fire for ideas.

Long books, impassioned debates and all that. He fancied himself a keen lefty, reasonably well-read and globally attuned. But like everybody else, he’d naturally lost some of that youthful current. The first-class degree and subsequent employment at a good law firm saw to that. The sour commute and endless carousel of rent and routine that he and most of his late twenties tribe found themselves in amplified it further. But he still read the broadsheets, watched the odd TED talk and had the good grace to look down on people who’d never read Huxley or Orwell.

Like everybody else, he’d thought about the crack a lot over the last weeks and listened with a serious face to what the experts said. But it had been there for so long now. The waiting for it had got to the point where he had run out of opinions.

Before the Crack - Christopher Adams Repetition of anything, however terrifying it might be at first, will always condition ambivalence.

There wasn’t much to be done about it anyway, he’d decided that very early on. That thing up there was a stray cat, stopping off somewhere to sleep, eat and destroy all the furniture before moving on.

of a volcano.

They did say it would get hot.

The slow night emptied the room and filled it with an opaque closeness. Coupled with Peter’s sinuses, it gave the impression of being at the bottom of the ocean with thousands of seas trying to smother and crush you. He exhaled

the pressure and pushing against the ceiling. She wasn’t even Peter’s type. She listened to Buddy Holly records and spoke with a little too much keenness at staff meetings.

Nevertheless, she made Peter laugh, had a painfully endearing bob haircut and drew funny sketches of Mr. Gardner sometimes.

“He could see why [TV] worked so well. It felt like sitting in a lukewarm bath. The experience no longer brought about any pleasure, but you also had no inclination to get out. The screen could be an hour-long broadcast of the color beige as far as he was concerned.

It didn’t really matter what was on, as long as it passed time.”

Whatever it was, it had its own ideas of where it was going with the world.

He placed another cigarette between his lips and opened the window. The only thing that was noticeably changing was the air.

That was the thing a lot of people were getting panicky about. It had certainly thickened throughout the day. Normally, the seventh floor windows would draw in a rush of evening coolness and erase any stagnancy in the room. But opening it felt like being trapped in a car in high summer or descending into the belly

deeply and took a large gulp of the beer, one motion anticipating the other. A mechanized clock ornament performing two motions in perfect synchronicity.

The discernible gaps between one person and another were thinning in the crowds below. If it were clearer, Peter would have been able to see where they were going but the last light of the sun was fading.

Eve was gaining momentum now.

She was running about the air in the room, gasping from

She was another mid-thirties divorcée—with two kids from a teenage romance gone south.

Peter slept with her after a company social event turned heavy.

They both enjoyed themselves and spoke for a while on Saturday morning but Monday was just a Monday. Nothing was ever said about a we or an us or even an it.

Peter opened his contacts and scrolled downwards. He didn’t know what he would gain by speaking to her. A break from the cat or somebody to share the last pasta salad

45.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 with maybe. Perhaps she was also on her own tonight.

The dial tone sounded, then the ringing began, and, all too quickly, she answered.

“Oh, hello. Eve? It’s Peter.”

There was enough of a pause in her voice for him to regret his decision.

“Peter? Yes. Peter. Oh, hey Pete! How are you? I’m fine thanks.

How’re you feeling?” The Monday morning voice was there. “It’s good that you called.”

“Oh pretty awful still, I can’t seem to shake it,” Peter returned.

“Poor boy. Did you try those Lemsip powders I mentioned? You need to take vitamin tablets too.

They will help strengthen your—” she spoke with lovely false sincerity.

“Yes I did, thank you. Did you have plans for tonight?” he started, quietly surprised at the directness of his question.

“I’m taking Samantha and Lottie over to my parents. We’re cooking dinner and going to watch the dance show final—don’t ask, my mum and the girls love it.”

“The final is canceled tonight, technical difficulties they said.”

“Oh that’s a shame, we’ll just have our food then and see what happens after that.”

See what happens after that.

“That sounds nice,” Peter replied. There was an exhausting quiet, the kind he could tell his grandchildren about.

“How have things been this week?” He wasn’t a good talker, but gave the impression of listening well.

Eve inhaled, as though about to retrieve something from the bottom of a swimming pool.

“Stressful in the run up to last Friday. Statements not getting to the right people on time.”

“Typical mess,” Peter returned confidently. “Almost glad I’ve been dead to the world.”

46.

“Yes you might say that! It was terrible without you. Gardner was sniffing around me most of the week,” Eve stated.

Peter laughed and meant it.

“Any questions come up about eighties cricket players and you’ll be well prepared though.”

This wasn’t a funny observation but Eve laughed anyway. “Sounds silly considering the circumstances, but I’ve actually missed work this week— seeing people I mean.”

Peter didn’t mean to go this far, or leave this much of a gap between saying anything. Aware of the vacant space, he spoke suddenly.

“Were your yoga classes still running this week? I know you said you’d like to go at least once more.”

The seconds folded and stretched around themselves.

The same inhale came again, preparing for a deeper dive in the pool.

“Listen Pete, why don’t you come and be with us?” she offered.

The false sincerity had gone now, something else replaced it. Peter could hear the cat pawing at the sofa cushion.

“That’s actually really kind Eve, but I wouldn’t want you or your family catching this, especially—I mean, you know, at a time like this.”

Enough moments passed for an associate partner to think of a lie: “I’ve got some jobs to do around the flat, too. I need to tidy up and feed the cat… Thank you for the offer though.”

Eve didn’t reply and Peter wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard him. He thought he could hear crying.

“Anytime, Pete.”

“I hope you have a really nice evening Eve. Get the kids to bed early… Take care.” He didn’t wait for a response before hanging up.

There are particular situations, usually concerning those who have experienced a particular

breed of pain, that an understanding is reached of not saying too much, or if possible, not saying anything at all.

After the phone call, Peter took a large handful of potatoes from the cupboard and placed them in the microwave. He wanted something stodgy to go with the pasta salad. The red timer wound into smaller and smaller digits as they rotated.

Peter decided he would take a good bath. Since the reduction in heating allowance, he’d found that three full kettles were required to make the whole thing worthwhile.

He felt it was worthwhile tonight.

Peter returned from the first fill with his last dashes of coke.

He arranged it in an even line on the kitchen counter. He then took a five-pound note from his wallet and rolled it into a thin, tight straw before squeezing it into his nostril. He made a short, quick motion along the table and the dust disappeared. He returned the damp note to his wallet.

Boiling kettles, filling baths, heating beans—these were welcome models of structure and order for Peter. He liked them. Little things feel worth doing well when nobody is around. The electric burble of the boiling was a pleasing sound too. It wasn’t angry like the microwave and far more natural, like jazz in posh restaurants. The kind that is played in a way where you can barely discern the beginning or end of a song.

The line had lengthened and thickened in the sky.

It looked as if paint had been applied too swiftly to an undercoat and quiet cracks were branching out with each heavy brush stroke.

Shadows fell peculiarly on the buildings below and seemed unsteady in their depth of cast. They appeared to be peeling away from their natural posts, drawing towards the sky like dust sucked from a carpet.

Peter thought there might have been a sunset somewhere behind it all; he

Before the Crack - Christopher Adams had seen them before and was sure they could still happen.

The dyed sky was shifting.

Pale glimmers of light could be seen splitting the inky clouds, but an overwhelming refraction swallowed them into the emerging vacuum.

The crack was widening.

Peter finished the pasta salad.

He had emptied the kettle twice already and was waiting for the last boil.

He added the steaming fluid to the bath and lowered himself, coughing as his testicles met the steamy surface. Before long, they had acclimated to the temperature and the rest of him followed into the little universe of closeness and warmth.

The air was far heavier by the time Peter had dried himself.

The thickness and humidity of the room was dense, as if the octopus had awoken from a nightmare and tightened his grip too far, bursting the seams of the flat and letting the night flood in through the gaps.

Flus and men tend to get worse at night but Peter was prepared this time. He’d wrapped the tissue around his nose at the first tickle and trapped the escaping mucus. He waited several moments to ensure the situation was under control before inspecting. He cleaned himself up and pocketed the handkerchief in his dressing gown.

The crack ate away at the horizon.

Gaseous clouds and forks of electricity shivered and warped around the main line before an increase in pace tugged them to an aperture of black. Road signs and bicycles were hovering just outside Peter’s flat like party balloons. They hung slowly and hilariously before a sudden change of angle pulled them towards the splitting skyline. It reminded Peter of a game he played as a child when he and his parents went for walks in the countryside.

The four of them would throw sticks

over one side of the bridge and race to see whose would emerge on the other side first. He learned that it was important to start your stick where the current was strongest. He knew that it would gain speed as the depth of the riverbed changed and that if he did this, he would win.

Peter checked his watch and it read ten-forty-five.

Saturday lunchtime at the very latest.

Outside his window, cars, people and buildings were floating upwards and gaining terrible momentum at a certain distance from the crack. They hung weightlessly until a sudden jerk gave way to a steady acceleration, a tug into nothingness.

The off-shooting tendrils were racing across the horizon and the night sky was a memory, creaking apart and splitting.

Peter shut off the lights and drew the curtains closed on it all. He popped out three paracetamol tablets on the kitchen table and poured his last dribble of beer into a shot glass.

“Percy… here puss.”

Nothing moved in the flat.

He waited a few moments but nothing came.

Must have slipped out while I was in the bath.

Before long, the tablets took their effect and Peter fell into a deep, nasal snore.

At twenty-four minutes past eleven, Percy grew uncomfortable with his position behind the sofa and sauntered into Peter’s bedroom.

He found a place in the crook of Peter’s thigh and fell immediately to sleep.

47.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Plastic Wedding (Che i baci non lasciano i tracce) Simone Consorti, translated by Patrick Williamson

H

er Today, I’d rather be photographed than interviewed. I might be able to fake it this way, but I don’t know if I could lie with words.

“Closer,” they keep saying. “Come closer,” the photographers insist. They’re thinking shots like Beauty and the Beast. They claim that people, thanks to my life choice, will consider me a heroine from now on.

“Hold on, but I’m the hero,” my husband points out, attempting a smile. It’s actually a grimace, a sort of parody, since he can’t move his face. As soon as he tries, the others, being obliging, laugh for him, as if he had said something funny. Then the clicks rain down like hail. Sometimes I’d like to ruin their pictures with a flood of tears...

been mine since that landmine blew up in front of me, so I’m not ashamed. These photos are just a way to make some money so I can get a more acceptable, if not similar, face back. The army insurance doesn’t cover cosmetic surgery.

They’ve called me “the fighter” ever since I got back to Memphis because, shrunken like this, I have the courage to go out there in front of everyone. When I was in Iraq, I was an anonymous soldier. I didn’t deserve articles or epithets.

Here, they treat my third facial surgery as if it were World War III. Every magazine wants an exclusive. The goal is to come back, operation after operation, as beautiful as the country that sent me to war. This is the only way, they explained, that the country and I can become innocent again.

Him There is more money to be made today under the barrage of cameras than in three years in the army. The weird thing is that it’s Emily who’s self-conscious, while I’m the one who should feel shame, if anybody. My face hasn’t

Her The photographers keep eyeballing me, seriously.

I’ve never seen such hypocrisy. One shook my hand while rubbing his finger in my palm, right in front of my husband, while telling him how much he respected him and assuring him that he would touch the photo up perfectly.

48.

Plastic Wedding - Simone Consorti, Patrick Williamson “To make me look uglier or more handsome?” he asked, laughing.

That’s the scoop, the fact that I accept it, no matter what he looks like, a Francis Bacon character or whatever. Only I know it’s not entirely true. The readers in Nashville, Chattanooga or Memphis certainly don’t; he hasn’t noticed it either, caught up as he is in the newspaper reports; it doesn’t matter that I reject him in bed. The problem is that the photographers only see his face and neck; their camera shots don’t frame the arms he would like to touch me with or the sores on his belly. It would take X-rays to reveal how he has changed inside! Today, back in the living room, he removed our wedding photo and replaced it with the one the photographers took of us after his return. When I asked him where our photo was, he said that it was among the objects of the past.

“And where are ‘the objects of the past’?”

“Not here.”

“So where then?”

“Down.”

He was monosyllabic, it sounded like a treasure hunt, so much so that it took me half an hour to realize they were in the basement.

The thing is, I can only stand this if I think about how we were before, but that is something he can’t bear to think about.

Him Her mother didn’t look at me once tonight. Not even at the table, even though she was sitting right in front of me. She stared at the soup as if a fly had landed on it. Then at the meat, as if she’d seen a worm in it. Even worms are less disgusting than I am, it seems. At least my mother-in-law is consistent though.

She never liked me, not even before we were engaged. The day we got married, a week before I left, looked like it was anything but a party to her.

She’s barely smiling in most of the photos I made disappear. She always gazes into the camera as though she’s bored as hell, always somewhere else.

Yet the wedding photographer kept saying, “Come closer.”

She left right after dinner today; she was only there for the sake of appearances. When she told me, looking down again, that she could see me better, I didn’t laugh in her face, just to avoid a fight. I’m always afraid my wife might take it badly and seize the opportunity to leave. There were just the two of us at the table anyway really. Her brother was on his cell phone the whole time. He was with us just to be somewhere else and only butted in to ask us for a selfie together.

I didn’t suck, he was fine being seen with me... in between phone calls.

In fact, he played “buddy” until I explained that selfies were off limits because we had sold the exclusive.

“How completely stupid!” he commented.

“Thirty thousand dollars for photos is not stupid at all!”

“I was referring to the exclusivity, not the amount,” he snapped. It was damn hard not to get into an argument with him. This brother-in-law of mine probably wanted to sell the photos himself. I had to control myself more with him than with his mother.

“Can’t we just relax a bit?”

Emily intervened at one point. It was the most absurd sentence of the evening, because I’ve never seen her relaxed since I came back, even when she was asleep.

Him I can’t tell if they’re looking at me because I’m in the papers or because I disgust them, or both at the same time. I could feel all these eyes watching me at the hardware store, and the girl at the checkout counter who looked terrified, maybe because she saw my face, or maybe because she saw on my face what I was going

to do.

“Fifteen and a half dollars.”

That was all she said, letting the container go through.

If I disfigured Emily with hydrochloric acid, we’d be the same and maybe she’d understand how hard it is to accept. But if I did that, I’d be a double monster. Whereas, if she threw it on herself, to seal our union, she’d win, like, the Nobel Prize: “Woman disfigures her face to live out her husband’s drama!” A true act of love it would be, a dramatic act, but the effect would be fleeting.

The heart of our story lies precisely in her beauty and the sacrifice she makes. This is what the public wants: her giving herself, giving herself only to me and not to others. This is why people will soon start to detest me and, if I don’t act, if I don’t please more, I will become the creep, even for the media, the one who forces her, who obliges her. So it doesn’t work.

Her He moved in on me tonight.

Without saying anything, he straddled me like an enemy to be pinned down.

“Come on, you can’t see me in the dark,” he begged.

“It’s not that,” I replied, “it’s just that I’m not ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“What do you think?”

My voice, in the dark, sounds strange to me, as if I were talking to a baby. Whatever, after these scenes, he always goes down to the kitchen and drinks. He knows damn well it is not allowed by the treatment they gave him, and I get worried, but I’m sure he does it on purpose.

“It’s not my fault,” he yells at me from below, “it’s not my fault I stepped on that mine!”

We repeat the same scene night after night. He approaches me meekly. I reject him. He goes down to drink and comes back more aggressive. Less and less docile. Then he takes my hand and pretends to

49.

The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 make me feel that he is still a man.

“Can you feel that?” he repeats, “Can’t you feel in the dark that nothing has changed?”

He uses the darkness, the alcohol and the orgasm my hand gives him to convince himself of that. He manages to forget what he’s become for five minutes. The problem is that this coincides with the five minutes when I feel that everything is lost forever.

to it.”

“I know,” I snorted, “I’m used

The truth is, I scared me. I hadn’t seen myself in a long time, apart from in the photos. The psychologist had suggested removing all the mirrors when I came back, but I refused.

Because I didn’t want to be less: if my wife accepted me, I had to do the same, even with the scars and all. But has Emily really accepted me? She’s staying

was already cheating on me when I was still me.

Him The only good thing about having a numb hand is that when I touch myself, I feel less alone. It’s like I’m not holding it in my hand, but someone else is. I imagine she’s touching me. Several times I called out her name in those moments. I shouted it as if I could

“That’s the scoop, the fact that I accept it, no matter what he looks like, a Francis Bacon character or whatever. Only I know it’s not entirely true, the readers in Nashville, Chattanooga or Memphis certainly don’t; he hasn’t noticed it either...”

Him I caught her in the mirror.

She was looking at herself, doing her eyebrows, after putting on her beauty cream. She looks great, but it’s not enough for her. She wants to be even more perfect, to throw the difference back in my face. She gave a start when she saw me.

“You scared me,” she confessed, almost apologetically, as if she had done something wrong.

50.

out more and more. I don’t know if it’s to not see me, or to see someone else. I don’t even know which would hurt me the most. If being with someone else for a few hours would help her vent her anger and accept me more easily, maybe that would be okay with me. I don’t think I have the right to be jealous.

I don’t know. Every time she leaves the house I have to drink. I always imagine her with someone better-looking or stronger. What did she do all those months alone after I left? Maybe she

force her to obey me, as if she could answer me by whispering mine. Our names are the only thing that hasn’t changed. Emily, will you take Nicholas here for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, with his old face and as a monster?

Her I wish I had a mask on; I’ll have to go home in a bit and it’ll be the usual act, with him pretending to believe I have a headache. Or not even

Plastic Wedding - Simone Consorti, Patrick Williamson pretending.

“I’m the one who should have one!” he screamed yesterday, “I’m the one who takes five different drugs!”

The more pills he swallows, the angrier he gets.

“You listening to me?” he asked, “Can you at least listen to me if you don’t want to see me?”

His words are always loaded with double meanings. Maybe that’s why I block it out, because I’m afraid to understand what his words are hiding. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this anymore. At first it was still love, then it felt like my duty.

Finally it became a chore, a torture to be repeated endlessly.

Him She’s wearing more and more makeup as if she has to hide her face.

But maybe she’s got something else to hide. Or someone else. It’s intolerable that kisses don’t leave traces, that placing a foot on the ground has given me this face. Kisses, even the most genuine ones, disappear in a flash, vaporize, dissolve, and are invisible already by the time she opens the front door. At any rate, not only does she apply makeup, but she also makes up my words as she turns her back to me while she’s talking and repeats them, changing her tone. Earlier I pleaded with her, implored her, begged her for something and she answered that she won’t be ordered around. She says she’s been to the cinema, that I have no reason to get upset, she says the film was no big deal and didn’t even help to distract her.

“Distract you from what?”

“Nothing,” she says. It’s always nothing, totally unimportant.

Especially me.

“Why do you go if it’s no big deal?” I inquire. “Sometimes it seems you’re the one who was in the war: you don’t talk much, you’re always miserable.”

I tell her these are my feelings,

probably the effects of the pills. I was afraid that, to avoid another fight, she would go out again... in fact, she had put her coat back on. Then I lost control. But it’s not the jerking, any kind of contact at all now leads to rejection. The only good thing about this face is that I can hide what’s going on in my mind very well.

Him The only time she doesn’t turn away is when the photographers are shooting. Otherwise, I’ve gotten to know her shoulders much better than her many faces. She’s the greatest actress I know, but she hasn’t shown any pity the whole three months I’ve been back. Her face blank, she told me that she was leaving in the morning. She’s said this before.

At least three times. Then she did nothing about it. She is beautiful now, in her sleep, as she breathes, as her chest rises and falls and yet her lips are still, barely open. As if she were our daughter. I’d like our little girl to be just like that. With her prominent cheekbones, a little down on her lips, and her nose that becomes longer or smaller, depending on how you look at it. You’re beautiful, Emily. You’re too beautiful not to be a mother.

That’s why you’ll be gone, one day, sooner or later if not in the morning.

Something I cannot bear. Yet, part of me is convinced that you’ll forgive me; that, with the police and the newspapers, you’ll share my side of the story, the sacrifice made to feel closer to me. After all, seeing the face I love disfigured, your sacrifice will be mine too.

I look at her one last time as she is: her nose, her lips, her hair.

Too bad I can’t see her eyes. I say goodbye, staring at her again, before the acid deforms her, celebrating our second marriage and uniting us forever again.

51.

POETRY 52.

Variations on a Straight Line Victor Marrero This grand tour is no mean exposition of a master’s art. The galleries reek of bondage.

Captives rife. Common genres do not apply.

Image by image, wing after wing, slaves rough in creation circulate a show composing odds and ends. The raw figures belie fair expression. Sense and proportion fail to comprehend the point a fey celebration makes, in art, in life. None can tell whose expressions dominate, or what style the idled pieces articulate. Surrealism.

Phantasmagoria. Walpurgis Night. Terror’s fright.

Tyrants’ delight. Words fail in explanation.

Recreation falls short of satisfaction. By distortion as by representation, the death of spring, the rise of fall, all deconstruct the theme.

No conception of creation holds long enough to capture the essence of what a stunted mode is meant to show. Here, loose thoughts that art’s broken promises wrought enclose entire halls.

Brute struggles rage while riots now extolled as marvels strive to lock and unlock the hidden wonders of this world.

A titanic toll goes untolled, the uncounted, the abandoned, the rejected. In the spectrum of these extremes, colorations blend. Disordered dolomites mix the sense of submission and rebellion, suffocation with breath, captivity by escape.

And by a two-fisted union, both finished and unmade, high purpose and low tragedy, conjoin blithely in a chaotic matrimony staid heaven would disavow.

Behind the scenes, their ceremony of contradiction jades, revealing a gauzy haze as meaning by sublimation spins its white lies. Yet one line above all stands tall.

One line is all that time allows. No deviations here.

Say it now or hold the thought for good. The art is all.

The sentence handed down by stanzas suffers no more slack than a razor’s edge to hack a mean escape through rough terrain, though heavy odds overload the gamble stacked so high against winning life’s paltry prize.

So these age-old pranks endure. Recurrences pass through spasm and throttling, by flogging and shock.

Still, throbbing between the lines, pinpricks of recognition gleam intimations of a grand design when shadows gleaned from tedious strolls through these crowded halls labor in cycles, always timed to dwell upon ancient artifacts left undone, through long days, through hard nights, dry nomadic spells. Here, crude works exalted by exhibition evoke a culture, civilization fixed in static castes, though in reality motion comes to them, moment to moment, in the glow of meditation. Then whole new transfigurations erupt.

From nuanced flights, fibril gestures fill the air: fleeing snow, angels dusting, a hairsbreadth brush with the wind.

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 Masterstrokes draw gestation of another being from every turn of a passing glance. Every twist of phrase and fate entwines. Flirtations with altered states distort their vision by clashing lineaments. Stone cold configurations summon passion by shifting their point of view, like glints of sadness that emanate choked up on the iridescent teardrops shedding light from the galleries’ chandeliers, glistening back a sense that wellsprings weep within them.

With each new sighting, reflections and impressions of liminal images change perspective for any pair of eyes.

The murky figures locked inside the solid rock, there deformed within the uncut block all along, yet unseen like the dark side of the moon, shade into view. Faintly at first.

Not what the original look projected. Not as first love in first light, but as conjuring something else. Formless vision.

Myriad captive modes and poses and shapes carved out of virgin stone anomalous in a thousand cuts and a thousand places. Time distortions inbred in a nascent self. Villainous visitations of another world.

Sinuous grotesqueries flitting on a concave glass which magnifies the inflections and declensions of a lie.

Hence, infinite variations on a straight line expose and liberate what the art’s opaqueness long concealed, as if a stronger force eclipsed the sun’s field of vision and its rays so deflected occulted the master’s eye. Hence, the perfection of grandeur he longed for and so devoutly tried to cast in roughs stanched his thoughts, halted his chisel in hand from piercing what he had in mind. Hence, at its core, as in a match of martial arts, the display of skill evokes what striving must endure to survive. Above all, this exhibition makes a show of strength. Ages lost in tortuous caves dispelled for good. Because unfounded, those years strike back at shadows in a hollow space, spent as well, even if some hint of gain flashes through exhaustion with tinted shades. If this art’s remains recall a mere reproduction of harsh relief, like hearkened obsession with make-believe, so be it.

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Dangling Victor Marrero Chaos guides a hooded swing along wavering arcs, its blows powered to a point that excites the alienated mind when it shudders at the fringe of the act, reigning there, dangling momentously between dalliance and commitment, aims vacillating between creation and fear of what the hammer’s fall creates.

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By this portrayal, even if odd, creation upends betrayal.

The given takes away. Abruptly, the sculptor called it a day.

He brought to pass what the live exhibition so achingly affirmed when some pained and poignant notion of fruition and asymmetry struck bedrock here. The borderline restrained the artist’s hand.

Enclosure grabbed hold and stalled, still throbbing at the point where time imbues substance and comes to rest, where breath stops short and catches wisps of a moment’s next impulse to be. Precisely on point, the motion to its end, still up in the air, aligns coincident strokes of hammer and clock.

The peak levitates above, tenuously, as when a pendulum at its apex hesitates, hangs in place, and inscribes an arc of pendency, a quiver at the brink of falling.

There, the composition trembles, more impatient and insistent as its moment draws annunciation from within itself.

There, stilled motion absorbs creation’s subtleties, its agitation of order with chaos, an instinct of the art.

There, life movement hovers, lovely and trilled like a hummingbird’s flutter, suspended in a compact space as it executes a hurried entrechat with wings and feet flapping in a frenzy eager for consummation.

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 And suddenly, nothing. A burst.

The instant implodes upon itself. Lightness expires.

Out of its very transience and fragility the fugitive spot, still pulsing, momentously dissolves.

The fleeting figure performs a vanishing act, flashing an image of its instance as afterglow.

The snapshot recalls a snowflake that holds together just long enough to leave a wet imprint where it lands on a fingertip, as the droplet’s moment crumbles into crystal debris. Fine texture.

Frail loveliness. Whiteness and all.

There, release captures the moist molecule of memory embedded in vapor and water.

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Underside of Being Victor Marrero 1 Exertion itself must be the thing. Surely the tension is there. Pained devotion to exhaustion and grit stiffens will near the finish line: a native instinct of muscle and nerve, a twitch to flight, an ache wound-sprung deep inside each cell.

Each recalls the captive’s limit of self-restraint.

The reflex to be, the impulse to become what being begs to be, the primal need itself, blend as one.

Outcasts seized within walls of solid blocks.

Arms outstretched taut as a bow strung to the reach of endurance. Nerves on edge strain on the verge of snapping themselves to pieces. The prisoners plot escape by any desperate means free will commands.

Alien freedom closes in around them, lethal from all sides to the point of self-destruction that springs from the underside of being.

2 To serve, to flee, to call an end to what curtails execution, or else see bondage go all out to occupy its last resort— All that negates aspiration clamors urgent as breath to burst out loud into open air.

Confinement so incites spirit.

To expire unchained, to free itself from indignities the slave endures chiseled by a brazen talent, yet overwrought by design.

Near the end, that awesome need to be done grabs hold, rancorous through its final passage with message of triumph in hand.

Release gets on its mark.

Inside the isolation ward, the exile’s clenched fists pound on a padded door, insistent until the drumbeat of hard knocks compels a different answer.

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Cosmic Deviance Victor Marrero 1 The master was right all along. He was right to forebear hacking away any more at these ruins, justified to deny them the seal of perfection.

Mercy cast his way of sculpting a model of just restraint.

Upon this rock, marvel image of his own, the unfinished world stands apart, as upon a mock pedestal.

His spectacle of rudimentary creation inspires terrifying wonder, a beckoning all its own. Even so, what the live cast displayed, his outsized ego declined. Pitted against itself, the worst withheld, his frenzied hand pulled back when frightful visions of lifelong torture interfered, the unsung marbles spared the full execution they would have endured.

Rather bail than hail the fault lines fate cuts out and sets loose upon the world as fractured slaves.

2 Creation’s state of the art missed the mark somehow.

Thought veered, surreal in execution. Miscreant distortion abounds.

The misbegotten reigns. Propped up on the winner’s stand, the loser sports the laurels. A leveled plain proclaims high ground.

Hunters rule the roost. Even the clock’s reckoning of time adds an odd dimension to the hour. An extra gong.

The knell’s cosmic deviance portends the new day, dawn inflamed by holy light. Fanatic prattle rallies believers from the tower clock when midnight strikes thirteen, so the comfort of an even chime long overdue never tolls.

Incendiary drums beat. Devout entreaties to stop the shocks go down in flames as a frantic sprint to the finish line, stoked to complete the run, spirals to ashes.

Yet a titan’s rescue strength is stripped raw to the bone, his powerful back harnessed to dysfunction.

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Prime Study Victor Marrero Early morning musings. These callow lamentations speak my piece. I posed for oddity. A freak creation left undone, buried uncut in solid rock. Still, I feel.

I think. And I rage as I bend beneath the scourge of the ignoble globe my shoulders are bound to bear.

No line of defense disturbs the contradictions I cast as sacrifice of a master’s mold. I model a prime study in suspense, while nearby robust Moses frowns, fulsome muscularity flexed, harsh mien and all. For all his strained severity he is still ineffectual as leader of homeless clans.

The bare David rises in stature to peerless height in the rotunda at the key of this triumphal hall. His insouciant bearing is simply overbearing.

He preens and struts up there, all bounds of decorum abandoned, vaunting lordly privilege. The thumbs-on-the-scale beloved, finished if unabashed by self-love, flaunts immodesty larger than life.

And elsewhere hallowed in some other lamentation, behold, our siblings in stone: the Virgin with lifeless Son. Awkwardly sprawled. Steeped in mourning.

Polished for adoration of sorrow sanctified by the poor man’s lot. So cast for pity. So begging love.

They look on, intense, though they have all it takes and need no more.

For them, a master scraped fingertips raw. His touch, labored in love, in agony, glows in their contentment. Grace beatifies the aura around them. Clean arcs curve gently round every line to define beauty by the care and symmetry creation lovingly plies.

No random accident or knowing spite deformed the realization of these masterworks. No hollows depress the surfaces as if an errant thumb had pressed too hard on clay still moist.

No aberrant gaps or lumps or flatness rendered where the artist, through mischief or neglect, pared too much or not enough.

That wholesome finish is purposely endowed, not affected. Rather honed by hand for them alone and delivered to them alone by a caring hand. All that pride by sight and syllable conceives articulates from within them.

All that says in one breath: This is fine.

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Dark Night of the Soul Dawn Bratton at the edge of the world struggling with my own existence in complete surrender a votive offering in the night to forget myself entirely just being and the experience wrestling at the edge waves crashing, waves falling it’s a baptism at the edge I struggle with the dark pose an unutterable question and make a mental symbol light beams from the night light beams from this moment an unutterable answer outside of time this moment returning to my own annihilation

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A Glass Darkly Dawn Bratton Safely out of my hands from here just let it have its way with you already an image in decay it writes itself from the back Don’t give this moment more than its own weight in gold a story that I’m telling never put too much by tales told of old I tell myself stories outside of infinity brooding in blindness or escaped to oblivion I always knew it was hiding in the dark where not expected Death let you out of the bag and now I’ve got it I am risen from the dead my life reverse incarnated the shadowside a marriage of life and death revolving revolving rising and falling The pulse and the beat the warp and the weave again and again waking and sleeping breathing and dreaming I’ve come here to dream I’ve come here to dream I dream and I dream I tell myself stories inside infinity inside infinity I’m just a rumor makes no difference it all still happens.

Just the other half seen through a glass darkly makes the poem, the song I’ll wake me again in infinity through the shuttle of thought a passing torch in the darkness rotting forward or burning backward my life was your death my death is your life revolving revolving The poet goes blind she becomes her death nicely For through a glass darkly outside of time she writes you this song

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Wingless Antonia Alexandra Klimenko When I was a child of six I wanted a pair of wings I wanted to be Peter Pan wanted to rise above all the darkness all the negativity that threatened to weigh me down Wanted to float outside my body more than anything Today I am still the lost girl still looking for my shadow still waiting to be found still looking for that one magical moment where I arrive on a different plane a kind of Neverland a Foreverland Let’s face it tomorrow I could end up a flat-on-the-surface gray wingless two-dimensional extending to infinity extending beyond my own comprehension extending what? only to the end of this sentence? but not today not this moment In this moment my bags are packed and I travel at the speed of light Of course I am clueless as to how I will get there I am unable to contain all the straight lines that connect any two points (it’s why I don’t do stand-up) I repeat I am unable to contain all the straight lines that connect any two points let alone any fixed point because I have no destination And still I fly And still I fly…That’s kind of a take-off on Maya Angelou’s And still I rise! but I didn’t think of it until after I landed having boarded yet another train of thought

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Did I say two-dimensional? today feels more like one!

You see…my velocity is never constant I never look where I’m going I failed geometry I am entirely unable to measure the distance between first class and coach never mind one sentence and another If you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all And comfort and safety are all that I require (not) And still I fly!

Ahhh yes…I remember now by the grace of good thoughts you too shall be uplifted I’ll have a double on the rocks please A side of Xanax Another pillow would be comforting thanks Cute steward Fasten your seatbelts I see a little light peeking through the window Now if only we had wings!

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Punching Bag Lindsey Wentzel Its hard surface Its forgiving swing Makes a perfect landing For those flying feelings The fighter is a young girl Battling her inner demons In the harsh world of Society and teenage angst She brings home all the Frustrations of the day and Lets loose on the bag Asking it to absorb her struggle The bag rocks to and fro Attempting to dodge the jabs All while encouraging her to Push on and fight harder for herself The signs of wear and tear Showcase the fights weathered in the years before her and The years since her birth While worse for wear, The seams hold together tightly Bracing for the impact Of the unrelenting anger At times, she curses the bag Blaming it for her aggression Other times she hugs it Finding comfort in its strength The bag is always there A constant in a changing world And the worldview of the fighter It’s a comfort even if not treated as such Something to rely on Something that will always be there No matter what Something that will love her anyway

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So it is, for the mother of a teenage girl She’s there for when all else fails Even if it is to her detriment No bounds will ever stop her No offense too harsh to Make her harbor her love They are forever intertwined They will love and fight To the end of days

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Patches and Stitches Lindsey Wentzel Bare rooms, white walls, bad food, cheery nurses and surly doctors Fluorescent lights glare down onto freshly waxed linoleum floors The lights flicker along, in time, with my brain spasms Withdrawal and new medications taking hold in concurrent time Consciousness comes in spurts reality and reason hover just out of reach Shadows and voices all around but only half aware of their presence Jerking and poking they prod at me throughout the day and night The darkness had consumed me again sent me down a menacing path The clouds part and I realize I’m safe once more Someone has saved me from myself Now a team works together as patches are delivered day by day to stitch me back up I know better than to Think they will fix me I am merely being restored to my previous self There is no cure for this chronic affliction All is temporary both the light and the dark I’m sewn back together have arisen renewed Sent out into the world with a rehabilitated high

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All the while knowing the poison will return fatal or not and renovations will begin again

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Mit Marija am Schlachtensee Luke Shiller “Die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln”/“The dumbest Farmers end up with the fattest Potatoes” There’s a scent-a-lingers, There’s a smell-a-stays, It hovers when you speak your French And when you’re at the lake.

The sun could be what caused it Along with your neglect Of underarm deodorant; The sweat upon your neck Crawls down in lady-buglets, Fearing lest they’re mopped, Before they reach the promised land Of your bikini top.

Lakeside my Nine Stories You crack and find at once A koan about clapping, Which you read aloud for us.

And then ask “what’s a koan?”

—Before I can relate— A tree branch falls from heaven Where a woman stood of late.

She feels herself god-sparèd (The branch had heft enough To out her light; to mop her up) And then she says to us Some adage about farmers’ Ironic sizèd spuds And wanders off to seek and find More wonders in the woods.

And we, there left to wonder, Agree to leave unsaid definition of a koan, Who she was and where she went. *** And now the hour’s later, Alone, as is my way, A tickle in my nose fresh tells Me of your zen bouquet.

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Hymn to Anubis Zeke Greenwald So is this why my resounding Casbah, echoing from all the low houses and slab yards, is one broadcast antenna of barking dogs?

Oh Anubis, are you the god of lonesome watch, cold uncomfortable rest, and ready alarm?

Are you the god of the poet, who is in love, who’s in the static shock of a woman’s charm?

She is far away, but has immediate shock–– socks on carpet––touch of metal door knob–– all my thoughts, they tread in stockings now.

Now, Anubis, am I a dog, who keeps your watch?

Do you tune in to my frequent howl?

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30

Making the Bed Dale Champlin I fold the duvet the way my mother ironed my father’s shirts.

You could tell she wanted him to love her for it.

Bed is my nirvana—soft and feathery as a push-up bra I fluff up the pillows— recall last night’s catastrophe.

That’s why I don’t want to remember dreams. They can be disturbing.

Wakefulness is the planet I count on, my mother blood.

Now that my father is dead my mother no longer irons shirts.

She counts her stocks instead, and I add up the dividends.

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Before I Went Bad Dale Champlin I tell the old shoe I imagined I was someone special. I wore ripped jeans, and shaved my pussy.

Tattooed my tits and told dirty jokes.

I loved the wrong boy, cheated on him, and aborted his baby. I lied to my parents, listened to shitty advice, and made so many mistakes I thought I was unforgivable.

Then I robbed a convenience store for some blow. Fell down drunk. Fell down drunk again. Cheated on my exams.

Failed my exams anyway. Flunked out of Stanford. I hit a possum with my car, then a squirrel and a deer.

I used rusty needles. Jumped off a bridge.

Flying down. Falling away.

It served me right. No one lives forever.

I thought I would come back as a human and start all over again under different circumstances. Maybe that would have been too simple. Anyway I was wrong.

“Silly Old Shoe,” I tell her, “Don’t Cry.”

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Klieg Lights Dale Champlin In the bombed out city embittered by gusts of smoke and ash, fire lit embankments, the rubble of war.

Ghosts silently observe splattered starlight.

Elk flow swiftly as blossoms, jangling antlers, clashing hooves, snared by the pull of underwater chains.

Eyes, sunken knotholes, roll.

Veined bellies roll.

Swollen haunches roll.

They wait for the touch of land.

What should we think?

The world spills.

The river sighs, dimples and folds.

A bridge overarches.

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Walls Borrowing Blue Dale Champlin On the left a clutter of remembrance— keys maybe, a compact mirror perhaps, gloves and reading glasses tossed onto a credenza.

A mirror reflects lipstick pink, silver, mauve and oily ocher slashed onto the gesso.

No, spread not slashed— nothing angry or in haste.

In perspective, the carpet, rosy, fleshy as a newborn baby entices us to enter.

Down the hallway— there’s always a hallway isn’t there?— daylight bounds. A painting in a frame hangs on the wall nearby.

Is it the same painting we are observing— a mise-en-scène? The stage is set for contemplation. An actress in shadow rehearses her script.

Is she the mother I lost so many years ago, an aunt, my child? Will she remember her carefully written lines?

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CRITICISM

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The Slender Choices of Women Across the Ages: Muriel Spark’s The Girls of Slender Means Genna Rivieccio

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mong many female authors so often underlooked within the literary canon is Edinburgh’s own Muriel Spark, born Muriel Camberg—before a man’s last name came along to overpower hers. Even after things ended in divorce. Mainly because, like most men, it turned out her husband was manic depressive. And his form of it frequently led to domestic violence. Luckily for her own self-preservation, Spark was ahead of her time in many ways—and throwing up a peace sign to a man who treated her like shit was one of them. The seventh of her twenty-two novels, The Girls of Slender Means explored an experience based on Spark’s post-marriage escape (from Zimbabwe, then commandeered by the Brits as part of “Rhodesia”). One that occurred upon her settling in London during WWII. It was in early 1944 that she commenced her stay at a proverbial girls’ dormitory called the Helena Club. Barbizon this was not. For, as usual, even though the United States liked to complain about feeling the same pinch as everyone else in the world during a crisis

(see also: COVID-19), they didn’t experience nearly the same rationing intensity as Britain. And glamor is hard to come by when rationing and general chaos are at play, as was the case in the London of WWII. In The Girls of Slender Means, the Helena Club becomes the May of Teck Club. The fictional residence was, according to the book, named after Lady May Abel Smith, who created the institution during WWI—back when everyone vowed there would never be another World War. Ha. Cute. Making no bones about who the establishment was designed for, the caveat for living in the building is explicitly written as follows: “for the Pecuniary Convenience and Social Protection of Ladies of Slender Means below the age of Thirty Years, who are obliged to reside apart from their Families in order to follow an Occupation in London.” Of course, there are two noticeable “old maids” that eke by because they’ve stood their ground long enough, becoming honorary “matrons of the house,” as it were. Surrogate monitors to women— young women, the most sacred of all to our society—like

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 Selina Redwood, Anne Baberton, Joanna Childe and Pauline Fox. All of whom are just trying to make their way in the world at a time when it feels especially inane to do so. For if we thought it was shite now (which it is), imagine living as the Brits did during this era, with the constant threat of the Luftwaffe looming overhead (but at least back then, Earth’s climate had more of a fighting chance with fossil fuel emissions still being relatively new). The only likenable scenario at the moment is happening in Ukraine—though, let us not forget all the non-“mainstream” countries that Britain and the U.S. give less of a fuck about being invaded because the fate of such countries does not “affect” them and their precious ideologies as much.

As for the “frivolous” single woman’s precious ideologies at the May of Teck Club, “Love and money were the vital themes in all the bedrooms and dormitories. Love came first, and subsidiary to it was money for the upkeep of looks and the purchase of clothing coupons…”

Because a woman can’t “land” a man, her sole source for salvation (i.e., averting homelessness), without looking her “best.” And that usually means “not fat.” For slender means often entail a slender physique, to boot. At least for Selina and Anne, who are revered by the others for their ability to “wriggle sideways through the lavatory window”—an image that proves to be very foreshadowing indeed for the horrific denouement.

To the point of thinness being a wellspring of bitterness, enter Jane Wright, the plumpest (therefore, by male standards, the least attractive) of the lot. Like many of the girls, she has a job to do in order to make ends barely meet, specifically working in “publishing.” Which is why she often attempts to cite her overweightness as being the result of needing to recharge because of all her “brain

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work.” And, to be honest, she’s not wrong. The harder-working the brain, the more sustenance required.

Yet somehow that doesn’t explain the legion of fat, dumb Americans. At the same time, there almost feels to be a slight tinge of misogyny on Spark’s part, in that she affirms how “hard” it is for a woman to think as cerebrally as a man. So hard, in fact, that she needs to “feed” in order to restore her feeble mind.

In any case, in 1945, Jane is tasked by her boss with the burden of writing cleverly-crafted letters to famous authors that are, indeed, cleverly-crafted enough to actually elicit a response, preferably with a handwritten reply and/or signature.

Because, yes, Spark was essentially writing a version of the plot to Can You Ever Forgive Me? long before Lee Israel ever got the idea to forge author letters herself.

Before we delve into the final year of WWII during which most of The Girls of Slender Means takes place, Jane is the one who reflects back upon the period with Rudi Bittesch, a man well-acquainted with a certain Nick Farringdon. Having found out at the beginning of the 1960s (when the novel itself was released) that Nick died in Haiti, our objective narrator then tells us how it all began. How someone like Nick—playboy and political rebel—would end up as a Jesuit trying to promote piety. So it is that the book opens with the news of his death. Along with the indelible first line, “Long ago in 1945 all the nice people in England were poor, allowing for exceptions.” Seems that aphorism still holds in 2022—minus the fact that England has forcibly removed all the poor people by way of its Brexit politics and, failing that, taxes. And, to add to the delight of it all, women are treated more like little playthings for sadistic male amusement than ever, with a regular enactment of a movie title called

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night manifesting in the form of misogynybased murders like Sarah Everard’s in Kent or Zara Aleena’s in East London. Except, unlike The Girl in said film, the women of the May of Teck Club cannot defend themselves against unforeseen dangers that lurk at every corner. They are the preyed upon, not the predator. Even if Nick tries to make Selina out that way later, when it’s more convenient to bill her as another tart who practically forced herself on him when it was very much he who wanted it. But the internal narrative altered for him when Selina couldn’t deliver the idealized version of herself that Nick had in his head.

As is so often the case when women can scarcely stay on the pedestal they had no consent in being set upon in the first place. Nor were they ever made aware of any special imagined criteria it took to be on it.

Like many “stories about women,” a grouping of them as singletons (a very British word, as Bridget Jones made us aware) is intended to be representative of the entire “proverbial experience” of what it is to be an “unwed” woman “of a certain age.” Just as Jane Austen cornered that market during the Regency era, so, too, does Muriel Spark in her stark twentieth century assessments of women presumed to have “far more” rights—therefore choices—than their predecessors. But that isn’t at all true as the “fog of war” dies down and it becomes crystal clear that “the menfolk” expect everything to return to business as usual (see also: A League of Their Own).

That women ought to just step aside and embody the “roles they were born to fill,” as Betty (Kirsten Dunst) in Mona Lisa Smile cruelly wrote in an editorial aimed at taking down Professor Watson (Julia Roberts) for merely “demanding excellence” from her students. And while the mothers of these 50s-era women were now

The Slender Choices of Women Across the Ages: Muriel Spark’s The Girls of Slender Means - Genna Rivieccio expected to “reclaim” (as though it were ever a choice) their “place” in the home, those before them had a taste of what it was like to be truly free.

Unfortunately, the moldedby-McCarthyism mind of someone

to consider why Miss Katherine Watson, instructor in the Art History department, has decided to declare war on the holy sacrament of marriage. Her subversive and political teachings encourage our Wellesley girls to reject the roles they

going to bed. A former “anarchist”turned-missionary who used to frequent the May of Teck Club and write things like, “Everyone should be persuaded to remember how far, and with what a pathetic thump, the world has fallen from grace, that

“Just as Jane Austen cornered [the unwed female] market during the Regency era, so, too, does Muriel Spark in her stark twentieth century assessments of women presumed to have ‘far more’ rights—therefore choices—than their predecessors. But that isn’t at all true as the ‘fog of war’ dies down and it becomes crystal clear that ‘the menfolk’ expect everything to return to business as usual...” like Betty is quick to denigrate “spinster” and “progressive” Professor Watson in the college rag. In an article that glibly weaves between smug and accusatory, she remarks, “While our mothers were called to work for Lady Liberty, it is our duty, nay, obligation to reclaim our place in the home bearing the children that will carry our traditions into the future. One must pause

were born to fill.” Those “roles” decidedly lacking, shall we say, range.

Because Get up, act like a Stepford wife, repeat does not appeal to anyone with some semblance of a brain. Especially when the sex isn’t satisfactory as a minor point of assuagement.

It’s unlikely that Nick, a self-proclaimed progressive himself would have been much of a “legend” in bed—despite being legendary for

it needs must appoint politicians for its keepers…” Whether some people considered him a full-tilt anarchist or not (after all, he makes concessions for the monarchy), there was no lie in his added declaration, “We do not need a government. We do not need a House of Commons.

Parliament should dissolve forever.”

His enthusiasm for the idea of not being governed offers irony on

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The Opiate, Summer Vol. 30 manifold levels. For it is a direct result of governments (especially the openly Fascist ones of the most extreme variety) that the war is on to begin with. And that civilian men feel as though they can treat women with the same tyranny that a (typically all-

markedly when they are not of upper-class means. In which case, they would at least be “allowed” the “luxury” of pursuing what would be belittled as “hobbies” to keep them “occupied.” Because when a woman does something like, say, writing,

become more squalid as their youth fades and they give up entirely on trying to “find someone.” Anyone.

In the meantime, however, women’s “petty concerns”—particularly when weighted against the global crisis at hand—are focused upon with

“…whatever women are, it’s what a patriarchal society made them.

Fucked with their heads so much about standards of beauty, fear of aging and being intellectually inferior (which could not be further from the truth) that of course they’re going to be ‘a little nutty.’

Anyone would be, under that kind of brainwashing regime that persists to this day, albeit in ‘subtler’ manners.” male) government is allowed to.

As Spark builds slowly— yet in a very short amount of time, page length-wise—to something cataclysmic happening amid the seemingly mundane, quotidian events of the May of Teck Club, the nuanced manner in which each character, however minor, is portrayed says everything about the bleakness of the average female’s prospects. Most

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it’s a silly little trifle rather than a profession, as it is deemed for a man.

The insidiousness of Spark painting a picture filled with the bright future ahead now that the war is slated to be over is highlighted by the fact that, for most of these women, their own futures are not looking that bright. Not without the prospect of a “decent” man to save them from continuing to live in squalor that will likely only

razor-sharp precision by Spark. And yet, women have essentially been conditioned to be petty as a direct result of capitulating to what society demands of them: get married and bear children.

That’s why Selina’s own version of “The Jesus Prayer” is taken from “The Poise Course.” Referred to as the Two Sentences, Selina repeats to herself twice daily, “Poise

The Slender Choices of Women Across the Ages: Muriel Spark’s The Girls of Slender Means - Genna Rivieccio is perfect balance, an equanimity of body and mind, complete composure whatever the social scene. Elegant dress, immaculate grooming and perfect deportment all contribute to the attainment of self-confidence.” In effect, focus on that which is totally narcissistic in nature to feel good about yourself. Perhaps that’s the true reason why Selina is viewed, in the end, as being “evil” by Nick.

All because she valued rescuing the prized Schiaparelli dress (often shared between the girls whenever one of them had a date) above anybody else trapped in the skylight. Least of all Joanna.

His epiphany about Selina being nothing more than “style over substance” comes after sleeping with her. Before that, “He wanted Selina to be an ideal society personified amongst her bones, he wanted her beautiful limbs to obey her mind and heart like intelligent men and women, and for these to possess the same grace and beauty as her body…

It wasn’t the first instance of a man taking a girl to bed with the aim of converting her soul.” But Selina is not one for “conversion,” as Nick realizes that “he had not in the least conveyed his vision of perfection to the girl.”

“The girl” being all she really is to him. Nothing tangible, so much as a construct. A mold he would like to fill.

And when he fathoms that it cannot be filled as he wishes, his former socalled reverence turns to contempt.

Not just for Selina, but all those women who are classifiable on the “whore” spectrum of the Madonna/ whore “model” that men continue to adhere to for their own personal black-and-white convenience.

But again, whatever women are, it’s what a patriarchal society made them. Fucked with their heads so much about standards of beauty, fear of aging and being intellectually inferior (which could not be further from the truth) that of course

they’re going to be “a little nutty.”

Anyone would be, under that kind of brainwashing regime that persists to this day, albeit in “subtler” manners.

This is precisely why, when we see the “novel” rollback of women’s rights, it is important to remember that, for the most part, they have largely been an illusion in the first place. As it was in the 1950s for women who were expected to “just be grateful” they didn’t have to “suffer” the way those in the 40s did by actually performing activities independent of homemaking in the absence of men away at war.

Alas, a new war has sprung up of late. One that adheres to Barbara Kruger’s classic aphorism, “Your body is a battleground.” The “your” addressment not applying to (white) men, who have always enjoyed the privilege of corporeal agency as they try to strip away that of “the other half.” That way, too, they can still make it look as though they’re the ones coming to “the rescue,” when, in fact, all ills have been by their design.

This is made apparent through the image of the book’s harrowing climax: “The men were evidently trying to find a means of opening the skylight to release the girls, who meanwhile stared up at the square mark in the ceiling.” It reminds one of Britney Spears—the ultimate exemplar of patriarchal oppression on every level—posting an image, while still stuck in her conservatorship, of a square egress that leads to freedom on a beautiful beach and captioning it, “There’s always a way out!!!!!” Tragically, for some of Spark’s girls of slender means, that’s simply not the case.

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