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's Literary and Arts Magazine -
ly
iversi
East Carolina Un
hy 4
i
"
* &,
ART DIRECTION
Alana Solomon
David Rose
Jonathan Peedin
DESIGN ADVISOR
Craig Malmrose
ILLUSTRATION DIRECTION
Paul Rustand
LITERARY EDITOR
Randall Martoccia
LITERARY STAFF
Jahmon Reed
Stephen Randolph
COPY ASSISTANT
Valentina Kushnarenko
LITERARY JUDGES
Patsy OT Leary
Cindy Thompson-Rumple
LITERARY ADVISORS
Dr. Michael Bassman
Dr. Patricia Campbell
Julie Fay
ART JUDGES
Sheila Kilpatrick
Charlotte Beloate
Jennifer Strickland
EXHIBITION ADVISOR
Roxanne Reep
PHOTOGRAPHER
Henry Stindt
Stindt Studio
PRINTING
Morgan Printers, Inc.
Rebel Ninety-Five
/
Special Thanks:
Paul Wright
Craig Malmrose
Randall Martoccia
Dr. & Mrs. Martoccia
Ken Humphries
Mr. & Mrs. Alexander
Yvonne Moye
Janet Respess
Lynn Jobes
Luke Sanders
J. E. Boyette
Steve Randolph
Ray Elmore
Paul Hartley
Danny Stillion
Henry Stindt and his assistants
The Rebel is published for and by the
students of East Carolina University.
Offices are located in the Student
Publications Building on the campus of
ECU. This issue is volume 37, and its
contents are copyrighted © 1995 The
Rebel. All rights revert to the original
authors and artists upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced without
written permission of the creators. The
Rebel invites all students and faculty to
voice opinions in writing.
Cover illustration:
David K. Rose and Jonathan Peedin
Literary and Arts
Special Notes:
| thank God for sending me a miracle named
David Rose and Jonathan Peedin. Without
their spirit of confidence, unselfishness,
enthusiasm, and endless dedication, this
magazine would never have been possible. 1
thank both of them from the bottom of my heart.
l also thank Craig Mal/mrose for never letting
me break, even through the most adverse
circumstances. His constant faith and endless
support will never be surpassed. Thank you
mother for your prayers and encouragement.
! love you. Thank you Paul Wright, for never
loosing faith in the Rebel Staff of 1995.
Alana Solomon
Philippians 1:3
| owe thanks to my mother and father for
bringing me into this world. I would like
to thank Ms. Wincer omom� Best, you
have had a greater impact on my life than
you will ever know. With your help, love,
and patience, my lifetime hopes and
dreams are being fulfilled. Thank you
Tony for the stress relieving chess Lames.
Thank you David and Alana for sharing
this with me. We have struggled together,
and in doing so we have enriched each
other's lives. Thank you Craig for your
confidence and trust in us. Your support
and encouragement as always, was
inspiring. And a special thank you to Miss
Tracey Fuller, the purity of your love and
faith, gave me the strength to push myself
harder, and make myself stronger than
ever before.
Jonathan Peedin
Sl would like to thank Jonathan and Alana
for sharing this experience with me. I would
like to thank Craig for always being there
when we needed him and Paul Wright for
his trust and support. Thanks to Randall
and his parents for helping us out of a bind.
And a special thanks to my family for
always having faith in me and Amanda for
her endless love and encouragement.
5s
David Rose
~Table of Contents
4
6
2(
~~
2?
,
Wh
Do
Wo
P
~1
36
Jl )
S2
90
Y6
Seeing is Believing Gregory Dickens
3rd Place Poetry / Narrative
A Pretty Good Bike Johnny Dale
Ist Place Fiction
Untitled Major 1. Hooper
3rd Place Poetry / Free Verse
Chosen Alfa Alexander
Ist Place Creative Nonfiction
She Comes Back for a Day Wayne Robbins
2nd Place Poetry / Narrative
Visitors Herman Schroeder
Honorable Mention Fiction
Incident in the Grocery Wayne Robbins
Honorable Mention Poetry / Narrative
Mamo- Toto Lion Laura McKay
2nd Place ChildrenTs Literature
About Russia from a Russian Lucy Spiryakova
EditorTs Choice Creative Nonfiction
Fran Andy Brown
2nd Place Fiction
Art Gallery
Printmaking
Photography
Metals
Wood
[Illustration
Drawing
Graphic Design
Painting
Best in Show
Sculpture
Textiles
Ceramics
My Grandmother Jo Avram Klein
3rd Place Creative Nonfiction
The Latchkey Blues Player Laura Wright
2nd Place Poetry / Free Verse
The Dinner Engagement Andy Brown
3rd Place Fiction
Johnny Cashes in on American Recordings Gregory Dickens
2nd Place Creative Nonfiction
Interview with Luke Whisnant Jon Hey/
Interview
Bob Laura Wright
2nd Place Poetry / Free Verse
Corn & Circumstance Jon Hey/
Fiction Honorable Mention
Pomegranates James Earl Casey
Ist Place Poetry / Free Verse
The Live Oak Randall Martoccia
Ist Place ChildrenTs Literature
Rebel Ninety-Five
I
. "
aie - a . a ee ee c eh Mle
a ee ARES Sab NS a oe tw a om snl 8 i ASE Vo PRB Si, REGO Sei a esos ere Se nT T - ~ . : :
oth SEM eee _ - -
' Sete:
seeing Is Believing
7. ufevers Direkews
" by Paul Rustand
| was born with eyes like babies.
If not minded, they would
wander into a corner
To sit for awhile and
release water.
Not all eyes do this.
| was told they needed
to be ocorrected� for
their instincts.
| couldn't disagree.
(They gave me distinction. | could see around corners.
ThatTs neat when you're three.)
They were invaded by metal and sewing thread.
Giants in masks played with my children.
And | woke up blind for days.
(They were frightened. They hid from their father.)
When they awoke, they were as brazen as ever,
My parents,
(The meddling grandparents that they were),
Put them in cages, many over the years.
Frames like wheelbarrows, glass like lead.
They locked my children away.
And they've been there for decades.
| wonder if what my children see is what's really there.
| love them, I'd hate to think of them lying to me.
Sore at their incarceration, blaming me
(like blaming Atlas for the weight of the world).
I'm a stymied parent,
My children are ungrateful for their corrections.
ITm atraid we'll become older, and they wonTt talk to me at all.
| won't know what they see, where they wander,
I'll be in the dark.
Abandoned by my roaming and offended children.
4 Literary and Arts
: " Ere MCRES Sea ER eT
ne hae a
PAW SAY W/E, VEOEICEELA oFW. UL VU AALILINIG Sr Wow UU. cae
, make sure 6: tu regard as; to judge 7: to call on
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Py 2 Mase bg ers ss Band on faith 3: t0 have a firm conviction as
ee ett A eo . OF goodness of somcthine 4: to
ineliges, snany oveeae ty ' F. g00d ess of s¢ un is
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lockéd omy children awa:
they've been there for dees
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o my dad died at the age of fifty-
one while cycling, and I had to
come home from New York for a while.
He lay tangled in his bike three-quarters
of the way up the big hill on Old Prairie
Road where a bus full of high school
kids found him. This was in late May,
after the college kids were home but
before the high schools were out. The
heat probably got to him more than the
hill. My dad was a good cyclist.
ttyu Good Bike
Y Dale
Glasgow
rer eres
illustrated by Grace
Rebel Ninety-Five 7
My sister picked me up at the airport,
which was a shock. ITd left home for
New York the summer after graduating
from high school, two years earlier. I'd
been eighteen and Nikki was fourteen.
At the airport, though, she was a couple
of weeks away from her own graduation
and... well, a woman.
Mom was vacuuming the house when I
came in from the garage with my purple
duffel bag in hand. I donTt quite know
what I was expecting, but that wasnTt it. I
didnTt really think that she would be
pining away on the couch, dressed in her
wedding gown, but I didnTt think sheTd
be cleaning the house either.
oMom!� I sat my duffel bag down on
the landing.
She kept vacuuming, not hearing me.
oMOM!� I yelled.
Still no answer. My sister passed me,
going downstairs to her new room, the
one that had been my old practice room
for my spinning. Loud country music
came on downstairs. I heard the dog bark-
ing outside, its loud yips floating over the
open-mouthed humming of the vacuum.
All that noise, and all I could think was:
well, ITm definitely home.
The night I saw my fatherTs bike for the
first time, I was in my room listening to a
little techno on my turntable. ~This was
four years before he died, towards the
end of my junior year of high school, and
ITd just gotten into the whole dance
music scene. I only had one turntable,
allowing me to listen only to the back-
ground track.
It was a Friday evening, and I was lying
on my bed, staring at the ceiling and
waiting for the night. My girlfriend
Margaret, some of our friends, and I were
going to a club.
Literary and Arts
My dad was packing up to go away for a
weekend of playing contra dances. Aside
from teaching folk music at Kerring
Valley Community College, he played
mandolin and banjo in a bluegrass
band called Poor Richard. It got him
out of the house.
I heard my dad come down the hall to
my room. I tensed up, as I almost always
did when my dad was around. ~The door
opened to my room; closed doors never
meant anything to my dad.
oWhat are you listening to?� he asked,
putting on a tie. Poor Richard always wore
matching suits and ties to dances. It was
their trademark, | guess. He paused for a
second and cocked his head to the side.
oITm just listening to a little music,
Dad.� I sat up in bed.
He continued with the tie. oThatTs not
music, thatTs a computer program.� He
laughed at his own joke, then turned
around to look in the mirror, straightening
his tie, checking the length.
oWhatever.� I sat up and turned off the amp.
My dad always had the appearance of
being overweight without actually being
fat. He had a round face with a thick
moustache, like a tiny cloud in front of
the moon, and meaty hands that hid their
grace until they danced across the neck
of a mandolin. His only bulk was in his
gut; he had rather firm arms and legs.
oWhere are you playing this weekend?� I
asked him as he looked at different things
on my dresser: smelling the end of my
bottle of Drakkar, balancing an extra sty-
lus on the end of thick fingertips, glancing
at a folded-up note from Margaret.
He turned, note still in hand. oThis is
the weekend of the convention.� He
turned the note over in his hand, then
laid it back on my dresser, unread.
Poor Richard had gotten one of their best
gigs to date: house band at the North
Carolina Square Dancing AssociationTs
national convention, held that year at the
Charlotte Convention Center. oIs it the
24th already?� I sat on the edge of my
bed and looked over at the Word-A-Day
desk calendar sitting on my left speaker.
Friday May 24: Verisimilitude-The
appearance of being real. oVhatTs right.
~The prom was on the seventeenth.�
oYep.� He played with his tie some
more, and ended up tucking the thin part
between the first and second buttons of
his shirt. oWhere does the rabbit go?�
oAround the tree, down the hole, back
up the other side.� Almost exactly a
week before, my dad had been trying to
show me how to put on a bow tie while
Margaret waited in her prom dress in the
living room and Poor Richard sat in suits
and ties in the driveway. oITll remember
for next time.�
oNext time you'll get a clip-on.� He
turned and grabbed the bottle of Drakkar
on my dresser. He held it up over his
back. oYou mind?�
oNo... but you said it stunk.� WeTd got-
ten into a big conversation about this
when he was standing behind me, his big
arms around me, fumbling again and
again with a bow tie.
oThatTs just because I had to spend a
half an hour around the stuff.� He
sprayed a little on each wrist. oI felt sorry
for Margaret.�
oUh-huh.� | went to my closet to look at
what I was going to wear that night. I had
to pick Margaret up in an hour.
oHey, Aaron, does my tie look okay?� He
turned around.
I smiled at it, crinkling my nose. It was
an ugly tie. oNo.�
oI mean, is it straight?�
oOh, yeah, itTs straight.� I threw a pair of
jeans on the bed.
oGood.� He turned back to the mirror.
oHey, Dad, who you trying to impress?
Ihe guys? Some aerobics teacher?�
oYouTre asking for it,� he said. He had
the highest disdain for the people that
only contra-danced because it was good
exercise. oITm just trying to look good.
ItTs a big gig for us. They'll be people
there from all over the state.�
oYou nervous?� A shirt joined the pants
on the bed.
oNot nervous, just... ready to get there,
to be on stage.� He looked at the clothes
sprawled on my bed.
A horn honked below my window. I leaned
over my bed, pulled apart my blinds. oYour
wish is granted. ~TheyTre here.�
oTheyTre here?� He looked at his watch.
oTheyTre here. Right. TheyTre here. I'm
leaving. Right.�
oGood luck,� I said. oEverything
will be fine.�
oThanks.� He pointed at me. oYou be good.�
oHey, you too. YouTre so snazzy right
now female gym teachers will just be
falling at your feet.�
He pulled his fist back, faking a punch at
me. oOne of these days,� he said, look-
ing a lot more like Ralph Kramden than
he probably intended.
Ten minutes later he was on the road,
probably out on Route 217 by that time,
and I was done changing into my clothes.
[ went into the kitchen and put on my
shoes at the kitchen table, while Nikki,
then thirteen years old, and Mom sat
across from me, looking through a catalog.
oWhat do you think of that one?� Mom
asked Nikki.
oT like that one better. ItTs prettier.� She
pointed at something on the opposite page.
oI donTt think ~prettyT is a factor in these
sorts of things.�
oIt should be.� Nikki put her elbows on
the table.
My left shoe was tied when I looked up
at them. oWhat are you two talking
about?�
oBikes.� Nikki turned the catalog around
so I could see it. The page was filled
with little pictures of bikes, all of them
looking more complex than I remem-
bered bikes being.
oThose are awful big bikes for a little girl
like you.� I was trying to get Nikki to
yell at me. She wasnTt a little girl at all.
In fact, she was more rounded than
Margaret, but it was fun to make her
mad.
oTheyTre not for me, little boy,� she said,
othey're for Dad.�
oDad?� I looked at her, then at Mom.
Mom took a sip of her coffee, and Nikki
took a sip of the water she had in a coffee
cup just like MomTs. oYes, for your father.�
oWhatTs he going to do with a bike?� I
couldnTt imagine my dad even riding a bike.
oI donTt know, I just thought that... well,
I read in WomanTs Day that biking is one
of the best sports for you. And your
father isnTt necessarily in bad shape,
but... you know...�
oSo youTre going to get Dad a bike so he
can prop it in the garage with every other
gift weTve got him.�
Lily, our little Chihuahua puppy, let out
a few yips in NikkiTs room. We watched
as Nikki sprinted away from the table.
A baby voice floated down the hall. oYou
okay, Wiwy? Did you miss Mommy? Yes
you did!�
oShe really likes that dog,� my mom said
as I finished putting on my shoes.
I straightened up. oWhatTs this about a
biker� | asked, looking through the catalog.
oWell, have you noticed that your
fatherTs been in a foul mood all winter?�
oNo more than usual.� My dad was pret-
ty much always grumpy. oNo, not really.�
oWell, I have,� she sighed. oYou just...
you just a/ways see the bad side of him,
thatTs all. | thought a bike would give
him something to do, you know, some-
thing to take his mind off everything.�
oIt'll get him out of the house.�
oWell, thereTs that.� She took the catalog
back. oBut I thought later, maybe next
spring, maybe I could get one of my own.
~hen we could both ride around together.�
I had to admit that the idea of my par-
ents riding bikes together"on a beach,
say, or during a day trip to Charlotte"
had a certain romance about it. At least ITd
know that they werenTt wasting their time.
oWhat do you think about this one?�
she asked, sliding the catalog across the
table to me.
In the middle of the page was a circled
picture of a bike. It looked nice enough,
as bikes go. Very sturdy. The price was a
lot higher than I would have thought.
oHey, bikes are expensive.�
oActually, thatTs about medium-priced.
Do you like it?�
Rebel Ninety-Five
Y
oItTs fine.� I handed the catalog back to
her. oWhatever.�
The night I got home, Mom and I stayed
up very late drinking coffee at the
kitchen table and catching up
on two years... everything I'd
done in New York, like my job
at the supermarket, my spin-
ning, my apartment. ITd sent
letters, called, but thereTs
nothing like sitting and talking
with someone in the flesh. I'd
been a bastard to stay away
that long, thinking a problem
with my father was a problem
with my whole family.
o| got a gig coming up ina
week spinning for a fashion
show during Fashion Week. Not
a big designer, just an up-and-
comer, but itTs a good deal.�
oAnd youTre just twenty-�
oYeah, but you try not to get
much older than twenty-five
in my business.�
oWell, you do have your job as
produce manager if you get
too old for spinning.�
oRight, | want to be assistant
manager of the StopTnTShop
Grocery Store in Queens for
the rest of my life.� I finished
my cup of coffee and sat it
back on the table.
oWant more?� she asked, tak-
ing my cup.
oT donTt know... it'll stunt my growth.�
Nikki was in bed and we should have
been. It felt weird to be up this late
with my mother, brewing pot after pot
of coffee and making dumb jokes. She
was doing fine, all things considered.
Literary and Arts
In fact, she was doing so well that it
almost worried me.
Mom poured out another cup of coffee
for me, and then got some for herself
before sitting down across from me. oWe
should just move the coffee maker over
here on the table.�
oNo... last cup for me.�
oMe, too.�
I looked down into the cup, at the black
liquid. oMom, Nikki was acting weird
this afternoon when she drove me back
from the airport"I mean, of course she
was"but she kept warning me about
things ITm not ready for. It was odd.�
Mom looked into her cup and said, oShe
was just worried for you,
worried that you might be a
little surprised. ~Things got
weird here after you left.�
oSo ITve heard.�
Mom looked down the hall-
way, towards her bedroom.
oWait here,� she said, then
left the table.
I was on the bottom half of
my coffee by the time she
got back. She sat back
down at the table and
handed me a thick manila
envelope.
oWhat is this?� I opened it
up.
oTheyTre part of what all the
fuss is about.�
I found in the envelope a
sheaf of legal papers. ITm no
lawyer, but I dug through
them until | understood.
oDivorce papers?� I asked her.
She nodded, eyes on the table.
oThey arenTt. He didnTt
even know I'd had them
drawn up. ITm sure he had a
pretty good idea, though. | was going to
show them to him this weekend, after | got
everything worked out with my lawyer.�
oMom...� I put the papers down. The
couple in the apartment beside mine in
New York had just gotten a divorce, so I knew
how bad things had to be.
oHe didnTt even sleep here much any
more. HeTd just come home around two,
ride until six, catch a shower, tell me he
had work to do at the college, then fall
asleep on the couch in his office around
eleven. I thought he was having an affair
for a while. but I had him followed-�
oMom!�
oI had him followed and it turns out he
was just a lazy bastard who could never
keep his eyes open past ten oTclock.�
oSo you were going to kick him out?� I
pointed at the envelope, and the papers
on the table around it.
oYou donTt understand, Aaron. You will
one day.� She reached out for my hand,
then laughed, to herself. oThat was such a
Mom line.�
We'd gone to get it on Saturday, gone all
the way across town to a bike shop that
had the model we wanted, the one Mom
had showed me the night before. | did-
nTt even know there were such things as
bike shops.
It was a good trip, the three of us spend-
ing the day together. I had just started
working at the first in a long line of gro-
cery stores, BillTs Grocery, and | was
rarely off on a Saturday, but I didnTt go
to work until five that day.
My sister ran into the living room. oHeTs
here,� she squealed, jumping on the
couch between us.
oCalm down.� I slowly laid my copy of
Spin down on the coffee table.
oMake me.� She put one of her sharp lit-
tle elbows into my ribs.
My dad came in, his tie open and carry-
ing his mandolin case the way some
would carry a briefcase. He looked at the
bike, then at us, his family lined up on
the couch and staring at him.
oWhat the hell did you go buy a bike
for?� He stared right at me.
oTI didnTt-�
oLike we donTt have enough junk in the
house.� He touched the bike, looking at
it with contempt.
oItTs not for-�
oLike youTre going to ride a bike any-
way. Like thereTs anywhere for you to
ride to.�
oDad-�
My mother and my sister didnTt say any-
thing. I think they thought this was
already out of their hands. My father said,
oHow did you pay for this thing? I thought
you were saving up for a new car.�
| jumped off the couch. oWill you listen
to me for a minute!?�
oDonTt you yell at me, boy. I'll knock
your head clean off.�
oDad, shut your big mouth for a minute!�
He made a move towards me, but |
dodged past him and went back to my
room. oEnjoy your fucking bike!� I
shrieked at him from behind my door.
oAaron!� | heard my mom yell. It was
the first time I had ever said the f- word
around my parents.
I didnTt answer, and no one bothered me.
Listening at my door, I heard my sister
go softly down the hall to her room, shut-
ting the door quietly behind her. My par-
ents talked to each other, too low for me
to understand what they were saying, but
I did hear my father take the bike down-
stairs, into the garage.
It was the morning of the funeral, and I
couldnTt find a thing to wear. I was still
in boxers and a ~T-shirt, sifting through
the clothes I brought home. All I had was
a few pairs of jeans, a bunch of T-shirts,
and a black turtleneck in case it got cold.
[ didnTt even think about the funeral
when I was packing.
Mom knocked on my door and walked
in wearing a black dress and holding a
black hat.
oWhy arenTt you dressed yet?� She
looked at what I brought home, then
back up at me. oYou didnTt bring a suit
home? For a funeral? You come home for
a funeral and you donTt bring a suit?�
oI forgot.� Wrong thing to say. oNo, I
didnTt forget, of course, I just wasnTt
thinking that way. I was just thinking
about coming home.�
She just stared at me. She wasnTt mad,
really, but what do you say to a son who
comes home for his fatherTs funeral and
doesnTt bring a suit?
oLook...put on your turtleneck and your
black jeans. Ill be right back.� She left
the room.
I was tucking my turtleneck in when she
came back, carrying a black dinner jacket.
oItTs rayon, but it'll have to do,� I looked
up at her, and she wasnTt smiling, but I
was pretty sure she was joking.
oIs it DadTs?� I put on an old black belt
of mine ITd found earlier in the bottom of
my closet.
She handed me the jacket. oIt might be
a little short in the arms, but you'll only
be wearing it for a few hours.�
I just held it for a second, looked it over.
It needed to be dry-cleaned.
oI> " 7. ane 7 =. o y �
Put it on,� she said again, oWe need to go.
I slipped the jacket on. It was a little
Rebel Ninety-Five
1]
tight in the arms, as though I were being
held in by a harness, but it at least
looked like it fit.
It smelled like Old Spice, a present my
father would get from all three of us on
his birthday. ~Three bottles of Old Spice
would last him all year. HeTd usually run
out a week before his birthday.
| looked at myself in the full-length mir-
ror on the back of my door. I was draped
in black, my bare feet sticking out the
bottom of my faded jeans.
[ turned towards my mom. oHow do I
look?�
oLike a mortician.�
I looked at myself in the mirror from
behind. oI look like a Goth-boy.� |
knew she wouldnTt get the joke, but I
said it anyway.
oYou look like an Ann Rice groupie,� she
said. I'd sent Nikki /nterview With The
Vampire for Christmas last year, and Mom
had read it, as well as the rest of the series.
[ tried the jacket buttoned, then unbut-
toned. oI look like a Beat poet.�
She laughed at this. ITd gotten into the
Beats about the same age everyone else
does: junior year of high school. And, like
everyone else, ITd gotten out of them in
my senior year.
o*I saw the best minds of my genera-
tion...T� I recited in a deep voice, trying to
get her to laugh again. ~here | was on the
day of my fatherTs funeral and ITm trying
to get my mom to laugh. ITm a bastard.
oFinish getting ready to go,� she said at
the door. oWeTre leaving in half an hour.�
I sat down on the edge of my bed and
put on a pair of white socks. Finishing
that, | twisted around to grab my combat
boots and felt something in the inside
Literary and Arts
pocket of my jacket.
It was an envelope, folded in the middle.
Just a white envelope, with oFrank L.
Page� scrawled across the front. My
fatherTs name.
I started to open it, but there was a
knock on my door and I put it back in
my jacket.
oCome in.�
Nikki was wearing a black crushed velvet
mini-dress with a big, black, floppy hat. I
guess we were both new at this.
oYou look like a Black Panther,� she
said, laughing over me.
I raised my fist in salute.
I thought the bike would just rot in the
garage, but Dad started riding it about a
week later. HeTd take the bike out for a
while, wearing a pair of sweat-pants, an
old ~T-shirt, and the grass-stained tennis
shoes he wore when he mowed the
lawn. HeTd just fool around the neigh-
borhood, staying out later and later as
the days got longer.
By the end of the summer before my
senior year of high school, he would be
gone for an hour a night, and two hours
on Saturdays. (Though we never went to
church, my father was still religious and
never rode on Sunday.)
I was changing, too. ITd saved up and
gotten my second turntable, ITd lost my
virginity, and I was shaving everyday.
~Things were looking up.
~Two Saturdays before school started, |
was in the garage, playing around on my
system when Dad rode in. He had an old
backpack on behind his ~T-shirt, as well
as a pair of jogging shorts, his helmet,
and a pair of biking gloves. He was get-
ting a little thinner, and everything
looked baggy on him.
Saturday was a big day for Dad. He
would double the milage he usually rode
and go into town for a ogoodie�, some-
thing new for his bike. It was usually
something small and relatively cheap,
like a gel seat-cover, new handle-grips, or
a pair of toe clips, but this time his back-
pack seemed heavy.
I took off my headphones, let my two
albums play. oWhadja get?�
He looked at me without saying a word
as he walked the bike behind me. oNew
seat.� He put the kickstand down.
[ turned around. oWhatTs wrong with the
one you got now?� I asked.
oToo heavy. Slows me down.� He
looked all around at my feet. oWhere are
my tools?�
oI moved ~em up on the shelf, ~cause
they were in my way.�
He took his tools down. oDonTt touch
~em,� he said, that simple.
My dad was a quick worker, throwing
himself into whatever he put his mind to.
[ went up to get a sandwich, and when |
came back down, he already had the old
seat off and sitting in the corner of the
garage, and was adjusting the screws on
the new one.
oDid you have a good ride today?� I took
the albums off the turntables.
oNo better or no worse than any other
day.� He put the gel seat-cover on the
new seat, then sat back on the bike and
glanced up at me. oThis is great.� He
sat up, then back down on his seat.
oOh, yeah.�
I looked away from him, from his enthu-
siasm. In his backpack was something
else, something red.
oHey, Dad,� I said, owhat else did you
get?�
oNothing.� He looked down at the back-
pack and picked it up by leaning over on
the bike without getting off. I had no
idea he was that flexible.
oWhat was it?� I asked as he zipped up
the backpack.
oNothing, okay?�
oDad... what did you get?�
oIf youTll shut up about it, I'll show you.
But donTt say a word to your mother or
Nikki, okay?� He watched me.
" kay.�
oPromise?�
oJeez, Dad...yeah, I promise.�
He opened the backpack and took out a
small one-piece spandex biking outfit. |
choked back a laugh.
oWhat do you think?� he asked.
oUhm...�
oRidiculous, huh?�
oIs it for you?�
oOf course itTs for me. Who else would it
be for?�
oI donTt know. I canTt imagine that it
would fit you, though.�
He looked at it, held it out to me. oIt
doesnTt fit"well, not comfortably"but
in a few months it will.�
[ took it from him. It felt springy, giving.
| wanted to have it on, oddly enough, to
feel it over my body. oWhy did you get it
so small?�
oIt'll be my goal. I'll see how fast I can
get into it without looking like an idiot.�
He took the outfit back from me, held it up
to his body. Then he looked back at me,
grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
DadTs funeral was weird, or maybe itTs
just that all funerals are weird. It was at
Kerring Memorial Park, in their little
chapel. I applied there one summer to be
a groundsman, but they didnTt hire me.
Poor Richard finished the ceremony with
a Scottish mourning dirge that ended
remarkably cheerfully. It was this drab
little piece for about three minutes, then
it got brighter and happier until it was so
catchy my foot was tapping and I was
bobbing my head. ITd love to sample it.
When the funeral was over, I understood
that my job was to stand with Nikki and
Mom at the back of the chapel and
receive the guests. Nikki and I tried very
hard to be what we thought grieving chil-
dren looked like.
oI feel like ITm at a wedding,� Nikki
whispered to me after we get to the
back, before the guests started filing out.
Her assistant manager at Sears was married
a few months earlier, and my sister was one
of the bridesmaids, so she should know.
Then the guests were upon us, hugging,
crying, holding our hands, or just giving
silent, firm handshakes. I was very aware
of the fact that I was the most under-
dressed member of the funeral, with
Nikki a close second. I smiled at each of
them, the only real gesture I had in me,
and bowed my head slightly. oThank
you,� I wanted to say, othank you for
taking the time to come,� but that didnTt
sound quite like what they would want
to hear, so I didnTt say anything.
I was surprised at how many guests had
come. I thought the audience would be
medium, but the place was full of rela-
tives, musicians, and fellow professors.
An odd crowd, but a large one.
(There were also a large number of short,
strong, tight men in suits: members of
the local cycling club, my mother told
me in a whisper. Cyclists take care of
their own, apparently.)
Finally everyone was gone and that part
of my life was almost over; all that was
left was the burial. My mother and my
sister and | stood in the lobby after the
last person left, and we couldnTt think of
anything to say. ~he two-hour service was-
n't over quickly, but it was over suddenly.
oI guess we go out to the limousine,�
Mom said, looking around the chapel at
the few people still left. Her uncertainty
made me feel better.
oWhereTs Mr. Cottrell?� Nikki turned
around and looked up the aisle. Mr.
Cottrell was the representative for the
funeral home who helped walk us
through the whole ordeal. He was
indispensable, really, though he looked like
he was just going through the motions.
oI donTt see him,� I said. I didnTt even
look. Like I said, I liked the group
confusion, made me feel like I fit in. |
put the serviceTs bulletin in my jacket,
and rediscovered the envelope ITd found
earlier. I pulled it out.
oI guess we'll just go on out, then.� Mom
looked back and forth between us. Nikki
and I both shrugged. Mom put on her
hat, nodded, and turned. | fell in behind
Nikki, opening the envelope. I didnTt
even look at it before a strange urge
gripped me, a feeling of what I truly
wanted to do so obvious it surprised me.
I almost dropped the envelope, but
shoved it in a pocket and said, oGo on...
go on out and wait for me. I wonTt be
more than a minute.�
I half-ran up the aisle, past the few peo-
ple still milling about, past Reverend
Meadows, past the two older women car-
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rying out flowers, to the coffin.
I hadnTt looked at him until then. I did-
nTt want to see his body and I had con-
vinced myself that I hadnTt cared to see
it. But he was still my father, and ITm
half of him, and we were both so alike
sometimes it scared me, truly scared me,
because I did not want to be like him.
Not at all.
He was firm, tan, and his face seemed to
have been pulled tight at the back.
Though his expression had a loose quali-
ty about it, as if he were asleep, his brow
was slightly furrowed, his jaw set.
I was crying, but not for the reason
everyone probably thought I was. ~They
thought I was crying because I had lost
my father three days earlier, and thatTs
wrong. I was crying because | had lost
my father five years before. I was crying
because he should have been a little flab-
by, and he should have been lying in
such a way that his extra chin showed. |
was crying because_his short, thin, haircut
should have been shaggy, trying to hide
his rising hairline rather than display it
with pride. I was crying because he
should have had a moustache.
I was just standing there, arms at my
side, crying over a man that only resem-
bled Dad, when I felt another hand in
mine. I thought it was Nikki, and almost
didnTt look up. But her fingers were longer,
thinner than my sisterTs, and I looked up to
see Margaret, my ex-girlfriend. I hadnTt
even seen her at the funeral.
She turned up a corner of her mouth.
oCome on, your mother and sister are
waiting,� she whispered.
I tried to stay, I tried to drop to one
knee, but she pulled me up. oCome on,�
she stumbled, oyou're... youTre the man of
the house now, I guess. Be brave.� All this
from a girl I hadnTt seen in two years.
I walked with her then, and I started to
Literary and Arts
feel as though I werenTt really a part of my
surroundings at all, as though I were watch-
ing it from behind a one-way safety mirror.
She took me to a bathroom, washed my
face. My high school girlfriend, the rela-
tionship two years dead, and there she
was wiping off my face with a Baby Wipe
while I leaned on a radiator at my
fatherTs funeral.
oHow have you been?� I finally got out.
ItTs such a dumb thing to ask, but what
else was I going to say?
She smiled, kissed me on the cheek. |
couldnTt say anything. | opened my
mouth, and nothing came out.
The door opened and Mr. Cottrell came
in, cigarette in his mouth. oWhoops,� he
said, osorry for, uh...�
Margaret pulled me up an past him, into
the hall. She tried to go back to her car,
but I made her ride with us in the limo.
Throughout my senior year, | seemed to
see Dad only in the garage. Leaving or
coming back, or adding something new to
the bike, it was as though he lived in the
garage itself. Mom said the same thing.
Over the fall and mild winter, | watched
the bike change, transform. It became
sleeker, lighter. Over a course of Satur-
days, he added an upgraded gear system,
better brakes, more aerodynamic handle-
bars, and thinner and lighter wheels.
I also watched Dad change. As his bike
became smaller, lighter, faster, so did he.
The moustache was gone from his
recently thinned face, as was any excess
weight. He looked great, if a little odd.
But other little things started to change
as well. He stopped spending time with
us"which was fine with me"and
stopped even being in the house most of
the time. Nikki started calling him othat
eM
guy who keeps his bike here.�
See, instead of releasing his tension
cycling, Dad had found one more thing
to be upset about. He got unbelievably
paranoid that either me or Nikki would
ride his bike, and started chaining it to
the boiler in the garage.
Even the garage had changed over the
three seasons Dad had owned the bike.
One corner was filled with all the stuff
he had taken off the bike and never got-
ten rid of. (oCouldnTt stand to throw
away even a piece of the best present my
family ever gave me,� heTd say, lightly
slapping his newly firm stomach and
hooking a thumb into his waistband.) My
turntables were gone as well. He had
actually cleared out his old opractice
room�"an office, really"so I could spin
there. Despite what he thought of my
music, I donTt think he liked the idea of
my even /ooking at the bike.
On the Friday before the Christmas of
my senior year, Margaret and I pulled
into the garage, framing my father in our
headlights. He had his bike up on the
bike stand, tinkering with the gears.
oHowTs it going, Dad?� I was getting out
of the car. Though we fought every time
we talked, I still tried to start a conversa-
tion with him. I missed him.
His grunt made a noise that could have
been interpreted as oOkay.�
I opened the trunk and grabbed the few
bags I had in the back: Christmas pre-
sents for Nikki and Mom, and the few
groceries ITd been asked to pick up.
DadTs present, a twenty-five dollar gift
certificate at the bike shop, was in my
back pocket. oDid you get to go out
today?� I asked, because it had rained
that morning.
oYeah.� He didnTt look up from his gears.
oGood.� I handed a bag to Margaret, pre-
sents for her family, and closed the trunk.
He didnTt say anything else, and I just
stood there, holding two Gap bags.
Margaret looked at me and I shrugged.
We left the garage.
In the house, Margaret sat at the kitchen
table and watched as I put away the gro-
ceries ITd gotten at BillTs.
oYour dad looks great,� she said. She
never really liked my dad, but was im-
pressed by his new hobby. She told me
how good he looked every time we saw
him.
oThanks,� I answered, as if I had any-
thing to do with it.
Margaret and I had met two years earlier,
when we had both been dragged to a
square dance by our fathers, both of
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whom were in Poor Richard. She had
brought a book, and she sat on the side,
sipping a Diet Coke and reading. I tried
to talk to her, but she was distant and
polite. I started volunteering to go with
Dad every weekend, enduring the folk
music in hopes that the black-haired girl
would be there, sitting in the corner with
a novel. I finally got up the nerve to ask
her for a dance, something that had never
occurred to me before that evening, and
she accepted. Neither one of us knew
what we were doing, but it was fun. She
was there the next weekend, and every
weekend after that, without a book.
oMy dad was asking about him the other
day, wondering if he was still playing any
gigs at all.� She touched the side of her
left eye. Her contacts were probably
bothering her.
Dad had dropped out of Poor Richard
two months earlier, claiming that he
wanted a break from playing, but I sus-
pected it was because he wanted more
time for his bike.
[ think heTs only playing in class now.�
[ put up the peanut butter, then turned
towards her. oNo, wait... | heard him in
the den playing his banjo the other day,
when it was raining.�
oAnd?� she asked.
oAnd... he stunk. Actually, he wasnTt bad-�
oBut in comparison, right?�
oExactly.� | opened the fridge, put away
the milk.
oYou know,� Margaret said, omy dad said
he should take up cycling, too. Biking,
he called it.�
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Rebel Ninety-Five /5
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oTell him I said to get a real mid-life cri-
sis.� | threw away the bags and sat across
from her at the table.
After a while, she asked, oDoes he keep
everything he takes off the bike?�
I nodded. oEverything.�
She rubbed at the other eye, this time.
Something hit me, all of a sudden, and I
leaned forward. oDo you think that after
he replaces the last original heavy piece
of our bike-�
oa4 nut maybe, or a metal screw-�
oRight. When he replaces that for a
smaller, thinner, plastic one, will it still
be the same bike?�
oWhat do you think?�
oIT donTt know.�
oYou know what,� she said, finally, oI
donTt think it was the same bike after he
replaced the first piece.�
The night after the funeral, my sister and
I were working a jigsaw puzzle in the den.
Weird for us, but it had been a weird day. I
heard my mother upstairs, cooking.
oGrieving is not something that one is,� |
said, trying to fit two pieces together,
oitTs something that one... no, walt.
Grieving is something that one does, not
something that one... no...�
I shut up, and Nikki just looked at me.
Only eighteen and she already had an
eat-shit-and-die stare. oUh... good call,�
she said.
It was a Friday night, and it felt odd for
both of us to be home. I know itTs cus-
tomary to stick around whenever your
father dies, but this was different. Mom
had even tried earlier to convince us to go
out for a while... to a club, maybe. She said
Literary and Arts
it would clear our heads, but it didnTt seem
right. Just like it didnTt seem right to have
the television on while we worked the
puzzle, so we didnTt. It didnTt mesh with
our ideas of a house in mourning.
But we did have a tape of some of my
music on the stereo. I made it for Nikki
about six months ago, when I pulled
the graveyard shift during a rave. It was
all she had of my music, but it was old,
and I cringed at some of the stuff ITd
done: how another sample would have
worked better here, how I screwed up
the tempo there.
Lily, our dog, started barking, so I got up
to let her in. She had a little house in the
garage she stayed in during cold weather.
For no reason, Nikki followed me.
oWhere are you going?� I asked.
oWhere are you going?�
So we both let the dog in. I opened the
heavy wooden door at the back of the
garage, Nikki opened the screen door.
But the dog just stared at us.
oCome on in, Lily,� I said, but she did-
nTt budge.
oCome on, rat-dog,� my sister said. Nothing.
Finally we closed the door, but we didnTt
go back into the den. I poked through
the garage, examining our old Christmas
decorations, DadTs power tools, and
NikkiTs and my old toys. Nikki reached
behind a pile of old encyclopedias and
grabbed a pack of cigarettes. Back when
I was living at home and smoking, I used
to come out to the garage to smoke, too.
She didnTt offer me one, but laid down on
the hood of her car and stared, I guess, at
the exposed fiberglass in the ceiling.
Someone had returned his bike.
Someone had returned it, set it up on the
bike hooks, even. ~The only thing that
told me it hadnTt been hung there by
Dad himself was that his helmet wasnTt
sitting on the seat (it had cracked open
when heTd fallen off the bike) and his
red cycling outfit wasnTt on the shelf
beside the bike (they had cut it off in
the ambulance).
oWho brought it back?� I raised my hand
to touch the frame.
oDonTt touch it, DadTll kill you.� She
laughed at this, exhaling smoke. I didnTt
think it was funny, but I laughed too.
I let my hand drop though, as if Dad
might just have been able to kill me for
touching it.
oWho brought it back?� I asked again,
hand at my side.
She was quiet though. After a moment of
no talking, no moving, Nikki finally said,
oRemember when I was little and I was
scared of monsters?�
oYeah,� I lied.
| heard her inhale, then blow out, but I
didnTt turn around. I didnTt want to see
her smoking. oYou know what Mom told
me that made me finally shut up about
monsters?� ~Though she was speaking
with normal inflection, she was still start-
ing straight up at the ceiling. oShe told
me that of course there were no monsters
in the house. She said, ~Do you think your
father would let monsters in this house?�
I didnTt say anything to that. What could
I have said? My sister sat up, took one
last drag, then dropped the butt on the
floor, squashing it under a red Converse.
She picked the filter up and put it in the
back pocket of her jeans. She probably
flushed it later. ItTs what I used to do.
I left the bicycle and looked around,
coming to the pile of old bike parts in the
corner, what was left of our original gift.
After a while, Nikki followed my look to
the discarded parts. oYou know,� I mum-
bled, oif we took these leftover parts we
might be able to make a pretty good bike.�
The day I decided to move out was just
after graduation. I hadnTt applied to any
colleges, but my parents didnTt mind
since I was doing pretty well at my job at
BillTs Grocery. The produce manager,
BillTs niece, was going off to veterinari-
anTs school in August, and I was taking
her place. Plus, I was pulling in about as
much as I was making at the store by
DJing parties every weekend.
It was a Saturday evening, and it was just
like any other Saturday evening in the
summer, aside from the fact that I had
nowhere to return to in a few months,
which was nice.
I was in my ooffice,� playing around with
my system. I had recently sunk all the
money ITd made at an after-graduation
party on a nice keyboard, and I was using
it in my mixing. I had an old tape of my
fatherTs"many years ago heTd made me
a tape of him playing as part of a birthday
present"and ITd MIDITed it through my
old Macintosh. I was using it as a sample
over top of a Julee Cruise cut I was spin-
ning to. It sounded good, and I had the
volume up because Mom and Nikki
were out shopping for swimsuits and Dad
was"where else?"out riding.
I let the Julee Cruise album play and
switched over to my third turntable,
which was dutifully playing a monoto-
nous dance track, over and over.
I added in DadTs dulcimer just over a
breaking backbeat. ITd assigned the sam-
ple to one particular key, and I was play-
ing these chords behind it. It sounded
spooky, like Folk Gothic. It was one of
the best things I had ever done. ~The
money I was spending was going to a
good cause.
As I said, I had the volume up, so I did-
nTt hear my dad come in. But when he
opened the door, all spandex and wind-
breaker, my hands jumped off the keys
as if suddenly burnt, and I quickly faded
the master volume down to nil. oHi.
Dad. Did you have a good ride? Mom
and Nikki are out buying-�
Not loud, but strong enough to interrupt
me: oWhat was that?�
oJust me playing around. Just spinning.
With my new keyboard.�
He was looking over my shoulder, at my
system. oThat was me, wasnTt it? That
was me, right?�
I tried to answer, but he was already past
me. oDad, wait, I thought you...�
He was pulling wires out of the back
now, like yanking hair out of a scalp, and
spitting words.
oTL will.not.have.my.music...� I jumped to
his side, yelling. He pushed me back, a
lot stronger than I thought he could be. |
stumbled back and jumped at him again,
landing a short punch on his arm, just as
my mixer fell off the table.
Dad now pushed me down, and turned
to stare at me. He was no one I knew. I
lurched to my feet, then tripped out of the
room. We both knew where I was headed.
The bike was on the hooks heTd installed
in the far wall after we put the doghouse
in the garage. It was locked up"I knew
that without looking"so I grabbed a
shovel, the first thing I found.
| swung it over my shoulder like a base-
ball bat because the ceiling was too low
for me to use it like a sledgehammer. But
just as I was about to swing, I paused,
confused. At first I thought heTd gotten a
new bike, but then I realized heTd taken
the final step.HeTd replaced the frame. It
was a completely different bike.
The pause cost me the only chance I'd
get to hit his bike. He slammed into me
like a bullet, driving me against the wall
and making me drop the shovel.
He was a lot stronger than me, a lot
stronger than ITd imagined. I didnTt beg
or yell. HeTd caught me. We hadnTt
talked since this began, and we didnTt
start then. He choked me with the han-
dle of the shovel for a while, rubbed my
face in the spokes, kicked me with his
little cycling shoes. I couldnTt do a thing
to stop him.
My father was doing all this to me.
My father.
Finally he left me in the garage, sure that
| wouldnTt dare touch his bike. Five min-
utes later I was leaning on the boiler, let-
ting my nose bleed into a fabric softener,
and | heard the shower come on.
Before the shower was off, | was in my
Honda, purple duffel bag packed and
opened in the front seat, and pulling out
of the driveway.
Margaret lived only three miles away,
but I drove slow because my side hurt
and ITd only just called her. (oHello?T�
sheTd said. oGet ready to go, we're leav-
ing.� I'd whispered into the phone, then
hung up. SheTd know what | meant.)
We'd talked about this before, about how
nothing was stopping us from just leav-
ing, just moving on. Margaret had a good
job at Waldenbooks, and she was putting
off college for a year. We'd talked about
it, about how good it would be to just
leave, but it was just talk. We both knew
we'd never do it, and that was why we
talked about it so much.
Margaret lived in a room over the garage,
and her light was on. I threw a pebble at
the glass, something I always did. Kind
of like a joke, almost.
Her curtain fluttered once, then opened.
A Margaret shadow stood in the light.
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17
_
"T ee
Come on, I motioned, waving my hand
towards me.
She shook her head.
I grabbed my duffel bag out of the pas-
senger side, showed it to her. | motioned
for her to join me.
She shook her head again, but slower.
My insides shuddered for a second, I spit
up something red. I motioned at her to
hurry up. I looked up to see her, a hand
over her mouth, slowly shaking her head.
I looked around. I wasnTt expecting this,
but I should have been. I walked around
my car, kicked a tire. Looked up. She
blew me a kiss and I gave her the finger.
I drove around town for a while, but
ended up back at my house, unpacking
my stuff. I didnTt say a word to Mom
about what happened. And a week later |
was gone, Margaret behind me, my
father behind me.
The night of my fatherTs funeral and |
was throwing pebbles at a dark window.
It was a cloudy night and there was no
moon, no stars. It would be raining later.
Literary and Arts
It took three hits before the light came
on and Margaret was standing at the win-
dow. I walked into the square of light on
the ground so she would know it was me.
She was straight above me then, dropping
a look down on me. I just spread out my
arms, palm up, and tried to catch it.
She disappeared from the window. ~The
bedroom light went off, leaving me with
my arms outstretched like a scarecrow in
the dark while she crawled back into
bed. But then the garage light came on
and Margaret padded across the cement
and unlocked the side door. I ran
around the side and stood at the door
while she opened it.
We had not talked but I was talking
then, as she leaned her long body on the
door, only a night gown between us. oI
donTt want to be brave,� I was saying, oI
donTt want to be the man of family.�
Four hours later, the sky was gray like
old asphalt and I woke up in my clothes
with MargaretTs hand slowly moving
across my face.
oWake up, sleepyhead,� she said. I kept
my eyes shut.
oWhat... what time is it?�
She kissed me on the forehead. oAbout
five-thirty. My parentsTll be up soon.�
My eyes crept open. oOn Saturday?�
oMy dad works on Saturday mornings at
the plant. Mom gets up with him.�
I rolled over, tried to go back to sleep,
but she shook me. oHey, none of that.�
Another shake. oWake up, you need to
hit the road.�
oWhy?� I asked without opening my eyes.
oBecause I may be a liberated woman of
twenty, but I donTt show up at breakfast
with my high-school sweetheart in tow.
Besides, I have to be at work by 8:00 to
open the store.�
I was awake then, and I rolled over on
my back, taking her hand in mine. oSo
you Tre manager now?�
oAssistant. But getting there.�
oWhy are you still here?�
oI moved out for a while, but came back.
You know how it goes.�
oNo, why are you still in Lewisberg?
Why are you still in North Carolina?�
ooc
And go where?� she asked. oNiew York?
You maybe. Not me.�
My chest tightened. Not so much that it
was true but that she knew it.
When are you going back to the city?�
she asked.
I didnTt answer. I tried to, but I couldn't.
I'he house was quiet for a long time, and
I looked at the sky to see if I could watch
it get brighter. I could.
owy ; e R
hatTs my dad,� Margaret said when an
alarm went off in the main house. oYou
better get going.�
[ got out of bed, found my boots. I was
still wearing the same clothes | wore to
the funeral, and I found the dinner jack-
et on a charr.
Be quiet with your car,� she said as |
tied the laces. oCoast down the driveway
before starting your engine.�
~I didnTt drive.�
You walked all the way over here?�
oDonTt worry about it.� I stood over her,
and struggled with the jacket before
finally getting it on my back. oThanks
for listening� was all I could say, but it
sounded so cliché that I wanted to grab
the words and take them back. oMaybe
tomorrow"I mean, today"we can... |
didnTt know how to finish the sentence.
She laughed. oGet out of here and give
me a call at the store after two, okay?�
Yeah, okay. Great.� I nodded and she
rolled over in bed, pulling her covers up
around her. Her hip stuck out like she
had an extra joint in it. Girls can do that.
he nightTs prophecy of rain was ful-
filled by the morning. It was a slow, casu-
al mist, but it was rain nonetheless.
Luckily, I had enough sense to park the
bike under the awning of the garage, so
it was still pretty dry. I wheeled it around,
pointed it down the driveway, and took off.
I still didnTt have a handle on the gear
system, but I had enough of it down to
get a good speed up as I raced through
the gray streets of the development. |
was quiet, fast, wind and water on my
face, legs pumping in grey morning. | felt
like a force of nature.
I was cutting towards my house like a
laser, going through yards, down alleys. |
was coming home, delighting in the
empty street and open speed.
Past Jeffrey WeaverTs old house, where
Margaret and I had gone after graduation.
Past Mrs. HaulmenTs house, where | had
learned piano as a child. Past Anthony
BuscosiTs house, where my first best friend
had lived with his family before he joined
the Air Force. Past Bill LehgmanTs house,
my first boss, on the corner of Old Prairie
and Harrison.
Faster, faster, faster.
I turned onto Old Prairie, cutting through a
corner of BillTs yard. I saw then where the
quickest path home lead me. Before I real-
~zed it. I saw that I was abandoned at the
foot of the big hill on Old Prairie Road.
| almost stopped pedalling, but didnTt, and
instead shifted to a much lower gear and
leaned forward, legs jabbing at the pedals
as my inertia ran out. Halfway up, heart
pounding, legs yelling, bike creeping,
the battle was won but I had lost. The
bike simply was not going fast enough
to stay upright.
| picked up the bike"lighter than |
and threw it to the side of the
thought
road. The dinner jacket, note still unread
in the front pocket, joined the bike a few
tired paces later. It was much too tight to
run in, and I had to keep moving. I was
coming home.
Rebel Ninetv-Five
1Y
= T
20
Literary and Arts
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iIlustrated by David Rose
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BAR AT tl TEN LORD DIMES CAEL me
24
Literary and /
They lived across the
street, the nuns did, in a
big red brick building set
at a right angle to a church
of the same red brick. Each
week day and every Sunday,
we, the children of different
color browns, left row upon
row of low, rust-brick buildings
we called home to attend school
and church across the street.
The nuns taught us that heaven
was in the sky, hell was under the
earth, and purgatory, they pointed
(The nuns knew everything, I thought.)
At nine oTclock mass, they sat in pews
behind us, their pink fingers poised over
black holy beads, ready and waiting to
dig into our small brown shoulders if and
when we gave in to the inevitable urge
to fidget during the two-hour service.
They would nudge us when it was time
ok SA AE
& -
se OS
on
z 2
ay Bk =
mY .
? a
x wee o
etal mre ies 2
Le
out, was somewhere in between the two.
moe
at 4. Wa *
oet
~ 2 a
oak.
~ . 7 +. * as ~Tw
pom are 2 ae
to kneel or make the sign-of-the-cross or
respond with the right words to Father
MichaelTs Latin chant. We sang amens
and hallelujahs in high voices, recited
the Hail Mary and ~The LordTs Prayer
(that we had to memorize at an early
age) and received the Blessed Sacrament
at the red, velvet-padded railing with
outstretched tongues and straight faces.
| was six and in the first grade when the
nuns chose me to give out diplomas to
the graduating kindergarten class of
1958. I would be outfitted for the occa-
sion, they told me, in a full nunTs habit,
black holy beads and all. After mass on
the day of the event, I was allowed for
the first time to pass through the
brass-knobbed, white double doors that
separated where the nuns taught school
from where they lived, so they could
dress me in the habit. My two older sis-
ters had entered that most private world
7
WS
SHA
si1% ~a
Sm)
+
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3 iy
ys
(3
AL
vt
Re coe pe
- we Cae PETAL IC Ves TB) 4 Be ee eee
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> SIRIS Ts Ta Fe PIL AIS TALES EE RASAD EL ADL sso oF howe +
3. Saswsigiae: Sates ar ORES .
7 eae nD a oes 1286 -
before - they came there most Saturday
mornings to scrub hardwood floors, pol-
ish full sets of silverware and wash and
fold bed linen and towels. They would
return to our world of concrete and steel
and tell our mother, our younger sister
and me how high the ceilings, how shiny
the floors and how huge the ice box in
the spacious kitchen were.
I trembled as I walked through the nunsT
living quarters. | felt | was in a place that
was even more GodTs house than church,
for hadnTt the nuns told us they wore
those gold bands on the ring finger of
their left hands because they were mar-
ried to God? (Imagine - chosen by God
to be his wife for life.) Through another
set of doors, | could see the room where
the wives of God ate. There was a long
table covered with a pure white table-
cloth and set with shiny silverware and
white china plates ringed in gold.
See-through white lace curtains hung at
low, skinny windows. In a far corner, an
old nun dressed in all-white slowly pol-
ished a dark-wood china cabinet. A por-
trait of a pink Jesus with blue eyes -
exactly like the one that hung in our liv-
ing room - hung on a wallpapered
wall next to the cabinet.
ad >
~Two young nuns led me down a long
hallway of shiny floors, polished tables
and stuffed armchairs. We walked
through the big kitchen with the huge
icebox to the pantry beyond where
canned goods and boxes of food lined
the shelves. ~The nuns told me to
undress down to the new slip and
panties my mother bought me just for
that special day. ~They then covered my
braided hair in soft muslin cloth. They
enclosed my brown face in stiff white
casing. My six-year-old body was hidden
beneath folds of heavy, black robes.
They wrapped my fingers with holy
beads and told me I was a blessed child
for having been chosen and to always
keep my hands folded and held |
waist-high. Except for my brown face
and hands, I looked and moved just like
the nuns. I felt chosen, blessed. That
night after that big day, I crossed back
over to my world of different color
browns and told my mother that when |
grew up, | wanted to be pink.
me}
ne�
+
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wee ee BPP
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2
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26 Literary and
sHe comes back for A dAY
illustrated by Amanda Baer
she
comes back for a day and she
wants me fo
visit and
wants me to
wait in the lobby for hours but
| have to go and
but
she isnTt here (oh now
kelly | long for those days in the
mud
when we drove between orchards
in wavy directions)
and | dream about apples the
bulbs of october they
dance on the edges and bob in the water and
| cannot touch her or
stand in this foyer for
one minute longer
(oh
how could you go with your parents to new york
when knowing
| loved you and wanted you
here
and why am | dreaming
of apples in autumn
all red in their piles
surrounding my snoring
until | wake
(crying
for someone
that somehow through years
disappeared) ?).
Rebel Ninety-Five 27
"-
28
T= SS lll SS
ae AD ee a
illustration by Jonathan Peedin
he sound of breaking glass is fol-
lowed immediately by a hollow
thud like a ripe melon being hit with a
hammer. We focus on the major insolent-
ly standing by the windows. The double
report of high-powered rifles thunders
through the room before the majorTs limp
body slaps the floor like a wet towel. The
snipers are close, too close. O.K. and |
look at the majorTs body but donTt go any
closer. We know we canTt do anything to
help him. I almost wish I could remem-
ber his name. O.K. nudges me with his
elbow. Yeah, it is time to go to work
again, so we leave.
O.K. and I are a team, a pair, and in a way
friends. We are the manhunters for this
sector. Once we would have been called a
counter-sniper team. That was before
1D).C. was nuked. Since then things have
changed. No one knows exactly whoTs
done what and to whom, but we know
whoTs getting the slimy end of the stick
" U.S. Not just O.K. and me. I mean the
whole U.S. of A., including Canada.
Seems like whoever pushed the wrong
button on the other side had help in high
places on ours. Not one of our birds even
left its lair. ~They never will now.
As we leave the briefing room, O.K. and
I canTt help but notice that the headquar-
ters staff are spastically running around
like a freshly flushed covey of quail.
Some of them are even looking out the
windows to see what is happening. This
tells us they are wor front line troops. |
tell O.K., oSuits and guns.� He looks at
me and nods his understanding. O.K. and
I take our gear and weapons out of our
Literary and Arts
VISITORS
travel packs and get ready for work as the
stutter of gunfire continues.
oThree,� he says. I look around and see
two more bodies hanging out of the win-
dows. We need to do something fast.
People are yelling and screaming for help
all around us. It seems everybody needs
help these days. ~The whole center of the
country is hot. From Oklahoma to the
Arctic Circle, a path three hundred miles
wide, will never be the same. The mis-
siles came in waves and walked their way
north from ~Tulsa to Baker Lake. Some of
the larger craters are over two miles in
diameter, and some even overlap, ITve
been told. ~That was ten years ago, and
we still have to wear radiation counters.
Right now, O.K. and I are on the eastern
seaboard near Norfolk. We are the
advance scouts for a presidential visit to
this area. Right now, that doesnTt look
like a very good idea. WeTre trying to stay
alive and keep some other people that
way too. BIG job at the present time.
Six and a half years ago our ofriends�
from down south decided that it was a
good time to go north for a visit. I guess
they thought we were easy pickings. We
were at first. ~The west coast surrendered
without a fight. ~The military had been
decimated by Congress and our
draft-dodger president. Ineptitude and
stupidity ran rampant throughout our
government back then.
Things are run a lot differently now. We
donTt have as many people, so everyone
has to do more. ~The presidency is still a
four year job, and we elect our presidents
by popular vote. If the vote is close or
equal, we have a run-off election. The last
democracy is still working even if the pres-
ident we have now doesnTt have a lot of
the country left to work with, but she does
have great legs... and us. I point and signal
to O.K., oYou take the left and Ill take the
right. ~Tell those weenies to stay away from
the windows! Meet me back here in five
mikes ready to go.� O.K. wearily signs he
understands and disappears into the confu-
sion of the area headquarters.
The U.S.A. that ITm fighting for consists
of the old New England states and most
of the old Confederate states. We are all
on the same side this time. Most of us
are former military people, from all the
branches of service, plus anyone else who
thinks they can make a difference. |
guess we could be called freedom fight-
ers, for lack of a better term. At least that
title is repeatable in mixed company. Our
official status is outlaw, as declared by
the former friends from down south, who
also claim to represent the U.S.A. now.
Yes, we still have around some people
who refuse to learn, but they are dwin-
dling fast, just like that major. Really stu-
pid of him to stand in front of the windows
while telling us a hostile sniper team was
suspected in the area. He was right; there
is. Now itTs our job to root them out.
O.K. got his name from the fact that
ook� is just about all he says to everyone,
except me. I found him about four years
ago down in ~Texas when it still belonged to
us. His family had been killed by reavers. I
asked him if he wanted to stay with me
until we got to some place where people
Cc o = ov g &-. ° o rr�
ould take care of him. He said, oO.K.
H _ . A
eTs still with me, learning the trade.
Not that it matters much, but ITm an old
man who happened to get caught up in
something he didnTt want anything to do
with. lhe raiders came, just like the old-
me pirates used to. I didnTt get home
until after they'd left. I'd been out hunt-
ine and was bringing home.a nice buck
I'd spotted a couple of days earlier. I
havenTt gone back since I left that day.
ITve been described as an old man with
hard eyes that go all the way to his heart.
Maybe I am. The passion is gone now,
but the banked fire of my anger still
smolders deep inside. Someday itTs going
8 kill me, but I wonTt be going alone.
Somebody, I donTt remember who, once
"" that I had 134 reported kills. I
" t know. I never counted them,
oe my sleep when they come to
= hey donTt stay very long though.
ri ange kills them, as I did in life. ~They
on't count anymore. Only the ones still
out there - :
there count, but not for much.
O.K. and I leave the headquarters
"" a window near the back on the
eft side of the building. The side with
Ki cover. We figure that since the
snipers are good enough to get here and
" a hit, they are good enough to
Cover all the regular exits. We stay next
" wall and make like chameleons.
- �,� new no-see-me suits work better
es any military gear made by the low-
= bidder. I worked on them myself a
couple of years ago while my arm healed.
I was »
Ss the field testing programmer.
Che no-see-me suits are a take off on the
Pi Gillie suits used in England in the
vers S, portable camouflage that lets a
Person see without being seen. These
New ones are made from a thin layer of
polyhedrons attached to a fine mesh
webbing and powered from photoelectric
Cells in the hood.
The
( : -" T
2 polyhedrons pick up a picture from
e side ane ae 4
ide of the suit and project it on the
ones on the other side all the way
around. Each polyhedron does both
functions at the same time, and there are
thousands of them on each suit. A clip-
on microprocessor controls everything,
and its battery pack also furnishes power
at night or in low-light conditions. ~The
photology experts will talk a personTs
ears off explaining how it really works.
All I know is the only control is an on/off
switch, and it works.
Over the years O.K. and I have devel-
oped a sign/body language that says more
than spoken words ever could. Body lan-
guage 1S very difficult to lie with, so we
donTt even try. This silent communica-
tion has saved our butts more times than
| care to think about. ~The amount of
information that can be passed without
saying anything is truly amazing. A tens-
ing of the muscles conveys a warning
while a complete freeze indicates that
danger is imminent. A nod of the head
tells direction and finger movement tells
Rebel Ninety-Five
29
30
how many. At night, taps on the otherTs
shoulder and cricket chirps do the same
thing. We also have a lot of personal indi-
cators that we use, that I prefer to keep
personal. We tried using mastoid implant
radios for communication once, but a
design problem with the batteries made
itself known. Changing the false tooth
batteries involved pulling the tooth out
and replacing it every ten days. ~That
isnTt so bad, but the batteries tendency
to short out after a couple of changes
was. I just didnTt know what fun was until
[ had 1200 MAmp surging through my
mouth, jumping from tooth-to-tooth
while a high-pitched squeal blasted pierc-
ingly through my ears. ItTs an experience
I will never forget. We gave them back.
We work our way slowly around the cor-
ner, looking and listening for more shots
that occasionally ring out. O.K. spots the
snipers in a window a half a block down
on the left. I spot the safety back-up in
the alley. I sign for O.K. to take out one
of the snipers while I hit the back-up.
The oSPAA'T� from his SR-3Ts muzzle
canTt be heard farther than fifty feet
away. [The sniper on the right disappears,
but the one on the left stays there.
Our SR-3Ts are state-of-the-art master-
pieces, custom fitted to each of us. They
use 3mm caseless ammunition with a
chiller, a pressurized carbon dioxide cap-
sule molded into the cartridge charge
that cools the chamber and exhausts any
gases left in the barrel. It also serves as
a theft deterrent. Anyone trying to use
a rifle not coded to him dies. ~The car-
bon dioxide is vented to a small piston
just under the scope batteries if the
rifle doesnTt recognize your code. ~This
causes the batteries to self-destruct,
taking everything in a ten yard radius
with them because the stock is made
from a new plastique explosive that
also detonates. ~The rifle is fired elec-
trically when the grip magneto is com-
pressed. The grip contains the safety
sensor that reads the ID chip implant-
ed in the palms of our hands. ~The
Literary and Arts
owner must be alive in order for them
to work too.
The safety back-ups donTt suspect a
thing. I see them tense when the remain-
ing sniper reports what has just hap-
pened. ~There are three of them, so I
know I have to be fast. Breathe, relax,
aim, slack, squeeze. ~Three oSPAA'TTS� in
rapid-fire cadence from right to left take
care of the back-up. ~Time to move,
though. ~The rapid fire has raised dust
that marks our position. O.K. is already
moving by the time I take the rifle out of
my shoulder. As he passes me he says,
oYou're doing it again.�
oDamn.�
We quickly move across the open area
into rubble which had once been a build-
ing. [he cat-and mouse game begins.
All three of us know approximately
where the others are, but not with
enough accuracy to shoot. ~l'argets have
to be definite or we are dead. Sound is a
killer in this game. ~The crunch of a rock
could signal my exact position. O.K. dis-
appears into a doorway, not that I really
see him. But there is that waiver in the
air that we never could get rid of while
moving in the no-see-me suits. I go
through a window on the right. Step,
look, listen. Step, look, listen. ~The pat-
tern is second nature to me now. Nota
sound betrays me. A sparrow flies out a
hole in the roof of the bombed out
~Toyota dealersT building across the
street. Stop. Look and look again. | may
only get one chance.
O.K. is on the other side of my building,
so it isnTt him. Maybe one of the head-
quarters weenies found himself a pair
someplace. Look and live. It isnTt one of
ours. I see a suggestion of movement in
the piled stones in the shadowed corner.
Therel I bring the rifle up and look
through the enhanced sights to make
sure. Yes.
The scope is an electronic marvel and is
worth twice its weight in chocolate. It is
computer-enhanced, image-intensifying
with thermal and passive infrared capa-
bilities as well as magnification up to
20X. ItTs the best optics system ITve ever
encountered. Simple to use too. Just
press a button on the grip to select a
mode. Press another button until the tar-
get is clear. Squeeze the grip when the
red dot is centered on the target.
Anything under fifteen hundred yards
has a personal message vigorously deliv-
ered to it.
It takes ten minutes for me to move into
a firing position along the back wall. O.K.
is coming back. I can feel his steps as he
follows the pattern through the old
wooden floor ITm sitting on. I expose my
hand and sign him to watch, and he signs
OK. The sniper is getting restless. I see
part of a boot behind a wooden beam.
Shoot? No, I wait for a better target. |
donTt want to waste any ammunition if |
donTt have to. Pride has something to do
with it too. | remember the old Vietnam
sniperTs book and chuckle under my
breath. I wait some more. O.K. looks at me
expectantly. | must be doing it again. He
knows that this bozo is one of the better
ones, and my humming tells him that |
have found my shot. A peep hole in the
bricks and concrete has been going dark
and then light as the sniper looks through
it and then away. | take aim and wait. The
pattern has been three seconds of darkness
and twenty of light. ~The hole turns dark.
oSPAAT.� ~The hole turns light.
O.K. and I amble over to the dealerTs ruined
showroom and look behind the rubble.
oThat was a righteous shot old man,� he says.
oThanks. You learn anything?�
oYeah, you still hum ~Amazing GraceT off key.�
Another late night visitor.
INCIGENT j;N tHE
illustrated by Paula Creech
| couldnTt even walk
when they came in
smiling yellow and
dull in popsicle heaven.
| approached one of
them he said
ostand back young
man, you are so
out of line very
so out of line� |
said $0
but he called in
for others all
yellow all fake
magic marker smiled
black like the
lines on the
roadmaps for
backroads they
huddled around
were not sure
what to do with me (I
wasnTt sure where i
groCery
was (somewhere deep
on the shores of the
south?)). then a woman
approached and i
looked at surroundings:
the checkout line
of a sterilized Food Lion.
oeverything's fine,� she
said turning her
backroad half
circle on yellow
with everyone frozen
and food going bad
(it was then
when | knew
under yellow moon
traintracks
i've got to
get out).
O-l'Oto
Ion
oy: 2 Oe ta mtn a
illustrated by Linda S. Curry
32 Literary and Arts
chan ak RO RE
Mamo-Toto was a beautiful golden-
haired lion. She lived on the wide
African plain under a hot African sky.
She spent her days playing in the tall,
tall grass under her favorite tree. When
the hot afternoon came, she would
stretch out on a branch of her tree and
take a nap.
; hough she was a beautiful lion and
1ad a favorite tree to take naps in, she
= unhappy. Mamo-Toto lion was shy
and never would play with any of the
other animals.
In the morning, just as the sun was Tis-
ng; a group of gazelle came by her tree
Foe oMamo-Toto come play with
+ Come jump in the tall, tall grass. It
will be very much fun!�
: would be very much fun to jump in
id tall, tall grass... she thought. But no,
wi: lions do not jump in tall grass with
ea Fe Mamo-Toto lion sighed from her
Rey branch, oNo, no thank-you, I will
a play with you today. I am playing
nb my tree.� And to make sure they
ae her, she shook the trees branches
oe making it look like much fun.
1¢ gazelle bounded away in the tall grass.
pe In the morning, when the sun was
~coches. its way up the sky and it was
ies ng to get hot, a herd of elephants
ae by Mamo-TotoTs tree on the way
ee mrt wry hale, The elephants called
to ce 1 eae Foto lion! We are going
oh ar in the water hole on this hot,
ay. Come play with us in the water
and get cool.� :
�,� :
cae did sound lovely on that hot,
hiphiia fi shy lions did not play with
win o in W ater. Mamo- Toto licked
otis aws and said, oNo, no thank you, |
like ped to with you today. On hot days
us I take a nap in my favorite tree.
I lik
© I i -"
ny tree better than any water
hole.� And with that, she settled down to
take a nap. She closed her eyes until the
elephants left to play in the cool water hole.
The sun rose higher and higher in the
sky; what a beautiful day it was and how
very hot. A flock of birds flew overhead,
flexing their wings. They lighted on her
treeTs branches. oMamo-Toto lion,� they
called, owe are going to hop and play in
the tall, tall tree next to the cool water hole.
Would you come hop and play with us?�
o the cool, breezy water
Playing next ¢
But no, lions did
hole did sound like fun.
y with birds in trees, especially
oNo, no thank you.�
oT will not play
not pla
not shy lions.
Mamo-Toto sniffed,
with you today. | am taking a nap on
this hot, hot day. Why donTt you go play
with the elephants?�
The birds thought that was a wonder-
ful idea, and off they flew to the water
hole to play with the elephants, leav-
ing Mamo- Toto alone to take a nap by
herself in her favorite tree. But she
could not fall asleep. She thought of all
all the other animals were hav-
mo-Toto lion, was too
the fun
ing, but she, Ma
shy to have fun with them. What to
do? What to do? She pondered and
pondered until night fell and the stars
came up in the sky, and the plainTs
insects came out to sing.
Every night they came out to sing. They
and danced about in
sang lovely songs
ht it looked
the grass. Mamo- Toto thoug
like much fun to sing and dance about in
the grass.
Mamo-Toto liked to hum along while
ging. She knew all their
the bugs were sin
areful to hum along
songs, but she was �,�
gs wouldnTt hear her.
quietly, so the bu
as such fun and
But tonight humming w
ang so loudly that she started
and louder until
the insects $s
humming even louder
she -- so caught up in the song --
hummed along as loud as she could. She
had been humming so hard that she had
to pause and take a breath. And when
she did, there was silence. ~The bugs had
stopped singing. All the plainTs insects
had stopped singing to look at Mamo-
Toto, the shy lion who had been hum-
ming along to their song.
Mamo- Toto lion was awfully embar-
rassed and wondered what to do when
she heard a little rustle. It grew louder
and louder and louder. ~The insects were
clapping their feet together and rustling
their wings. They were clapping and
applauding her, Mamo- Voto lion. ~They
liked her humming very much and want-
ed her to hum some more, and, to give
her some incentive, they started right in,
singing one of her favorite bug songs
Oh my, she wondered what to do. Shy
lions do not hum in front of all the :
plainTs insects. But it was her favorite
bug song and she didnTt want to be rude,
so she hummed along... shyly and a little
bit squeekily at first. By the time she
reached the chorus though, she was hum-
ming along louder than anybody. She
hummed on into the night, humming
and dancing to song after song. She was
having such fun that she didnTt want to
stop and take a nap, not even once
In the morning the bugs made her
promise to sing again with them the next
night, and they would go together to play
with the elephants and sing at the water.
hole. The bugs went away to sleep in the
tall, tall grass, and Mamo- Toto, the beau-
tiful golden-haired lion, happily lay on a
branch of her favorite tree to take a nap
so she would be ready at nightfall to eee
with her new friends and play with the
elephants at the water hole.
Rebel Ninety-Five
33
by Elizabeth McDavid illustrated by J
ake Stephenson
Do You Want Hel
p¢
ndy strained against his seat belt as Grampy was sitting in his wheelchair in tion. oYou two visit while I speak to the
he struggled with the window crank the lobby. He held up his arms fora hug. nurse about GrampyTs medicine.�
on the car door. oDo you want help with oPush me to my room, Andy. ITve got a Grampy closed his eyes and began tap-
that, Andy?� Mom asked. oNo,� he panted. __ treat for you.�
oI can do it myself.�
ping his foot to the music. Had he forgot-
ten? Andy touched him on the arm:
Andy grasped the wheelchair handles GrampyTs eyes popped open. oYour
But the crank wouldnTt turn. Mom reached " and pushed. ~The chair didnTt move. He treat! Forgot all about it. Now where did
across him and twisted the crank around pushed harder, and it inched forward, that pack of gum get to?�
and around. Down came the window. then stopped. He tugged backwards; not
a budge. He leaned forward, dug in his Andy patted a rectangular bulge in
oIt looks so easy when you do it,� said Andy. heels, and pushed with all his strength; GrampyTs shirt pocket. oHere?�
the chair still wouldnTt budge. oWant
oMy hands are bigger. And ITve had a lot of help?� Mom asked.
practice.� She pointed to a sprawling, red
oThatTs right. Now I remember.� He fum-
bled at the pocketTs button. oDang! CanTt
brick building up the street. oLook, here Andy sighed. oMomTs bigger than me, do a thing with these stiff old fingers.�
we are at GrampyTs nursing home.� Grampy, and sheTs had more practice.�
oNeed some help?� asked Andy.
Andy reached into the back and grabbed In the room, Mom set the fruit on the
the basket of fruit for his great grampa. nightstand and clicked on the radio to oReckon I do,� said Grampy.
GrampyTs favorite country-western sta-
oThatTs heavy,� Mom
said. oDo you want
.
help?T
oNo,� puffed Andy. oI
can do it myself.� He
dragged the basket
from the car, and stag-
gered a few steps, then
dropped it. Bananas,
grapes,and tangerines
scattered everywhere.
Mom helped him gath-
er the fruit, then she
took the basket.
oDonTt worry, honey,�
she said. oMy arms are
bigger than yours.�
oAnd youTve had a lot
of practice?� said Andy.
She nodded, and held
open the front door of
the nursing home.
34
Literary and Arts
Andy slipped the button
through the hole. He
retrieved the pack of gum,
pulled off the wrapper, and
gave a stick to Grampy.
Then he took one for him-
self. With it, he blew a
gigantic bubble. Pop! It
burst all over his face.
They both laughed. Then
Grampy sighed. oButtons,
wrappers, bubbles --- you
make it all look easy.�
oOh, Grampy,� said
Andy. oDonTt feel bad. |
can teach you, because
ITve had a lot of practice.�
About Russia
n both our countries there is the same
sky and the same sun, the same trees
and the same ground, and people seem to
be the same. But still there is something
different in this othe same�. I bet you
know about the difficult economic situation
in Russia. That is really so. Salaries are low,
prices are high. In Russia I was a college
teacher. If I were there now, my salary
would be 74 thousand roubles a month. ~To
understand how much it is in dollars you
must divide this amount by 4,200 ( on the
fifth of January, one dollar cost 4200 rou-
bles). It'll be about 18 dollars per month.
To make it more understandable, | can tell
you the prices for food so that you can see
what an average Russian can buy for this
sum. As in Russia the prices are given for a
kilogram, itTs a little more than two pounds,
[ will follow that system.
The price of butter is 20500, cheese is
11000; a loaf of bread, 700; sausage, 6000 -
50000; meat, 7000 - 9000; 10 eggs, 3000;
canned fish, 3000; herring, 6500; pasta,
1800; mayonnaise, 6800; 1 kilo cake, 16000;
and pepsi (1.5 litter ) is 3500.
ITve enumerated the products I could see
on the shelves of the store closest to my
house, which is a typical Russian store. ~To
exhibit all the food sold in the Russian
store, the ECUTs bookstore cafe area would
be quite enough, though the area of the
store in my home town is like 12 - 15
ECUTs cafes. The area is not small but the
variety of the products is not big. ~VhatTs
why in Russia on the shelves of the stores
you can see rows of the same products.
To go shopping in Russia is just as distress-
ing. But if you think the main problem that
people are not satisfied with are the choices
of the products, then you are mistaken.
The problem is not the lack of food. ~The
from A Russian
by
Lucy Spiryakova
problem is the lack of money. ~The people
are anxious about how to earn enough
money at least for the products that are
available. From time to time our local
newspaper raises the problem of children
fainting at school. Before coming to
America I thought, oWe have enough
food.� ~This year my daughter, who is in the
first grade, fainted. Now that I can compare
what people can get in America and in
Russia, I see that Russian people and pri-
marily our children lack proper nutrition.
You will find neither juice in winter, nor
fruit and vegetables. ~There are oranges and
bananas for 4500 roubles each, but it would
be better if they didnTt sell them. because it
is so difficult to refuse a child. With the
salary ITm talking about, oranges and
bananas are luxuries.
The first thing I bought for my children
was a package of vitamins with 30 pills. Do
you think parents buy them? No. And the
reason is the same. For 74 thousand roubles
you can buy only 14 packages. Nothing
more, no other things. Under the New
YearTs tree I put vitamin syrup for my
daughter and son. ~They thought it some-
thing special and delicious. My friend, who
has two young daughters, said when |
bought this syrup, oIt doesnTt make sense
to buy this syrup. It is expensive and tasty
and is finished soon.�
I like the American proverb about working
hard and playing hard. ~The majority of
Russian people just have nothing to do
with the second part of this proverb. All my
friends and my husband, cannot oplay
hard.� When they have free time they try
to get some additional job-legal with regis-
tration or unofficial without registration.
Weeks in Russia have their ends, but peo-
ple have no oweek-ends� and no holidays.
I was at home for the New Year holidays
(we do not call them Christmas holidays). |
could hardly see the customs of the holiday.
| remember the time when my seven year-
old daughter was three, the New Year
stores turned into winter kingdoms full of
affordable ornaments, garlands, masks. This
year... just empty shelves. On TV I saw a
program in which one of the stores in
Moscow was shown. Some customers were
interviewed. ~hey were complaining that
they could not buy Russian ornaments.
The stores didnTt sell them. Instead they
had foreign-made ornaments. The set of six
balls cost something like 250-280 thousand
roubles. (Do you remember that a college
teacher earns 74 thousand roubles per
month?) ~The holiday period was sad, and if
my children hadnTt had so many beautiful
gifts from my American friends, they
wouldnTt have had a real holiday.
I like that all people in America have the
same opportunity to buy things wherever
they live. In my home town in Russia, we
had no ornaments. I asked one of my
friends who is the director of the store
about it. She said that taxes for toys are so
high that it is not profitable for the stores to
get them.
So the difference between our countries is
that America is the country to enjoy your life
if you can work hard, and Russia is the coun-
try where you work hard just to survive.
ITm sorry if I distressed you. And as we say
in Russia, oEven bread is not everything.�
Besides material life there is something that
is more important. ~he people in Russia are
not so dull as their lives. Maybe ITll tell you
about that next time.
Rebel Ninety-Five
35
ran had heard all the names.
There was oFat Franny,� oFranny
the Food Processor,� oFrances the Fat
Farm,� oFleshy Fanny Frances,� oFlab
OT Plenty Frances,� and oThe Porcine
Princess,� a name derived from a vocabu-
lary word in Mrs. BrockTs English class.
Also, there were the obvious names such
o
as oFatso,� oFat Bitch,� oFat Ass,� oFat
Butt,� and oFlabby,� all of which
showed no degree of wit, but still made
all the kids laugh at her anyway.
Frances made her way to class everyday in
Kitring High School and never expected to
be called Frances or Franny or Fran, which
she preferred. No one really talked to her,
they talked av her, the way they would talk
to some nothing that had somehow stum-
bled onto their path.
oOut of my way, Fat Ass,� said Roger Mills,
rushing past her on his way to the cafeteria.
oYou're taking up half the hall, you stu-
pid, fat bitch!� said Jennifer Jennings,
brushing past Fran and heading to the
bathroom for a smoke in between classes,
as she always did.
They talked about her, too. oI canTt believe
how fat she is. Look at her,� said Beth
Sanderson in the cafeteria one Wednesday.
It was October, and the first major cold
snap had settled in the day before.
Halloween was less than a week away,
the next Monday.
Fran heard BethTs remark. No one ever
really tried to lower their voices around
her. They would almost mock-whisper,
36 Literary and Arts
Br
OW Nn
by
Andy
as if at least making an effort to spare her
feelings but not really. Fran sat only one
table away, within easy hearing distance,
but kept her head lowered, as if meditat-
ing over her fruit cocktail.
oWould you shut up, Beth? SheTs sitting
right there,� said Darla. Darla was the
brains of the class, head of the Science
Club, the Drama Club, the Math Club,
and president of the junior class. oJeez,
show a little class.�
Fran, out of the corner of her eye, could
see Darla staring in her direction. She
knew people like Darla. ~The kind that
would be upset over such comments, as
if it were her duty, something to prove
what a decent person she was. It was
easy to say those things when youTre
pretty and smart and popular, Fran rea-
soned. No one would hold it against you.
Still, it was more than most people did.
Pittman
illustrated by Gene
Fran put down her fork, letting it rest on
one side of her blue lunch tray. She
raised her head. Around her, chattering
groups of friends, all gathered in the
dingy yellow cafeteria, caused a constant
buzz of conversation. ~he yellow walls of
the cafeteria were meant to be cheerful,
and maybe they were at one time, but
the years had worn away their brightness,
leaving them a depressing off-white. All
the chairs were green and plastic, with
the floor comprised of square, reddish-
brown tiles. An expansive window, on
the opposite wall from Fran, looked over
the school grounds. Orange and black
decorations hung from the ceiling in
front of the window, somewhat blocking
her view outside. She didnTt like to look
outside anyway. [here was nothing to
see out there, really.
The tables were long with brown tops and
metal structures underneath. Fran was by
herself, as always. She wished that the
tables werenTt so long and that there was a
small one which could fit in the far corner,
where no one could see. She closed her
eyes for an instant. Maybe she could dis-
appear into those walls, like a pale yellow
ghost retreating into the shadows.
oWhereTs Matt?�
Darla. Fran opened her eyes again.
Fran could hear Beth ask
oOh, heTs on his way. He had a little com-
mittee meeting about the Halloween party,�
Darla said back. A pause. oHere he is.�
Fran saw movement in the corner of her eye.
A rustling of chairs.
oMan, the party is going to be such a dud.
We canTt even get a good DJ.� It was a male
voice. oWhyTd yaTll have to sit here? What a
view.� Fran gripped her fork tightly. She
was hungry again.
oMatt, be nice,� said Darla. oShe might hear.
oCan I have a french fry? Boy, is she fat.
Can you imagine her taking a shower?
oSheTd need a crane to lift up that flab to get
all those hard to reach places,� said Beth.
oI donTt want to even ofink about all
those hard-to-reach places,� Matt said,
munching on an apple.
oOh, cTmon, you know you want her.�
Beth lightly punched him in the shoul-
der, teasing-like.
oHa, ha. Very funny,� said Darla, cross
Oop z
~ Be core ee ~ nes SN -
lie te a PP E pe " = A cam
ea
oThat is so disgusting; it just makes me
sick to my stomach,� said Matt. oI bet
you couldnTt even find... it.
There was a momentTs pause before they
all degenerated into hysterics. FranTs fork
dipped into the mashed potatoes. The
long, ruffled ribbons of decorations in
front of the window cast across her table
WA
NSN
Rebel Ninety-Five
strips of dark and light.
DarlaTs semi-pleading voice rose above
the dying giggles. oYou guys are so
awful.� Fran glanced over at her and saw
that Darla was looking downward, slight-
ly ashamed it seemed to Fran. oYou
shouldnTt make fun of her like that. I
mean, maybe she canTt help it.�
oOh, yeah,� said Todd, putting down his
apple. oThe old gland problem defense.
Well, I donTt buy it. If somebody 1s that
fat, then they had to have made them-
selves that way.�
Fran knew she didnTt really have a gland
problem. No medical reason creat-
ed her largeness. She just ate a
lot. She didnTt want to, but she \
couldnTt help herself. After she .
had gotten out of the hospital a \
few years ago, the doctor had
made her attend psychiatric ses-
sions to stop her oself-destructive
behavior.� The doctor didnTt help,
but at least her mother had let up a
little.
FranTs mother, Matilda, had tried just
about everything to get her to lose
weight. She had forced upon Fran such
lovely meals as a serving of beans and
rice with water or a salad with vinegar
and a glass of sugar-free lemonade.
Instead of getting money to buy lunch at
school, Fran would get a pre-prepared
school lunch made up of something that
tasted like wet cardboard. One afternoon,
Fran had arrived home to discover pad-
locks on the refrigerator and also on the
basement door, barring her way to the
perishables stored there.
But it didnTt work. Fran shoplifted seven
six-packs of Milky Ways and four boxes
of Ho-Hos from Food ~Town. She became
remarkably adept at picking locks with a
hairpin (sheTd seen it in a movie).
After her olittle episode,� as Matilda
Literary and Arts
\ + : a a
yn:
called it, her mother didnTt make her try
to lose weight anymore. It wasnTt that
Fran didnTt want to lose weight; she just
couldnTt. Fran had even tried on her own.
She had tried starving herself, skipping
just breakfast, skipping only dinner, eat-
ing three well-balanced meals a day, eat-
ing one big meal a day, eating ten small
meals a day, the yogurt diet, the bread
diet, the fish diet, the chocolate diet, and
the liquid diet. She had even tried the
Deal-a-Meal diet, which didnTt cause her
to lose weight, but dd cause her to have
an overwhelming desire to strangle
Richard Simmons with
piano wire.
She had exercised
until she felt that her heart
would explode. Fran had constantly
heard about the orush� that one got after
exercising, but the only rush that she got
was rushing to the toilet to throw up.
Fran was not losing weight; she was los-
ing her mind. All the diets accomplished
was making her feel worse than she
already did and eventually leading to her
eating either an entire carton of choco-
late- chip cookie-dough ice cream or
three bags of Doritos. And then she
would cry on her bed surrounded by all
the plushy stuffed animals that had
cheered her up as a chubby little child
but no longer did.
Fran found herself in a very peculiar
dilemma. Trying to be inconspicuous avd
weighing 350 pounds just didnTt go
together. ~This fact was stated most clear-
ly to her on October 31.
Fran would always slip into whatever class
and take her seat as quietly and unnotice-
ably as possible. ~The school had provided
an extra-large desk for her as part of its
program to help ophysically challenged�
students fit in as well as they could. She
knew the school didnTt really consider her
a handicapped person. Handicapped peo-
ple had to have something done to them,
some horrible accident or defect,
to achieve that highly regarded
position. And everyone consid-
ered her tortures self-inflicted.
oThe fat girl, Fran, sheTs so
pathetic; she doesnTt deserve
anything special,� Fran knew
they thought. oLetTs just
give her a big chair so she
won't be too much of a
spectacle.�
\ Fran was actually hav-
ing a pretty normal day
so far. Some kids had
whistled at her as she passed,
and a group of girls had pointed and
laughed. Small stuff, really. Her normal
day stopped when she entered Mr.
BridgesT biology class.
Her seat was gone. Fran was halfway down
her row when she noticed. At first, she
just stopped and stared at the empty
floor where it had sat the Friday before.
Fran didnTt know what to do. The bell
was going to ring in about one minute,
and Mr. Bridges, his face unmarked by
emotions as always, had even taken out
his chalkboard notes. People casted looks
in her direction. She could feel their eyes
burning her. She must sit somewhere.
Fran pushed herself into a regular desk,
right behind some thin, blond girl, whose
name Fran couldnTt remember. It was a
tight squeeze, but through sheer force,
she accomplished the act. What other
option did she have?
The platform pressed into her stomach,
pinching and making her gasp for breath.
For a few seconds, Fran just sat still.
But, when the bell rang, she managed to
take out her Biology book. ~The desk
would have to do, she thought. Nobody
was watching her anymore, at least.
Fran hammered the pain from her mind
and remained in the desk the whole peri-
od. She even took notes, something she
usually didnTt do. At the end of the fifty
minutes, the bell rang and Mr. Bridges
dismissed this class, putting away his
papers and textbook for the class and
taking out the ones for the next.
All the students got out of their desks
and bolted out of the room. All but one.
Fran couldnTt get out of her desk. As much as
she pushed against the side, she just couldnTt
manage it. She was wedged in tight. Mr.
Bridges threw her a curious glimpse.
Other kids started streaming in for the
next class, all giving Fran a fleeting exami-
nation. Fran tried to push the platform of
the desk away, but it wouldnTt move
either. Something like a fungus boiled in
her stomach, and it made her sick.
Fran didnTt even notice that Darla had sat
down beside her until Darla leaned over
and put a tiny hand on FranTs shoulder.
oAre you okay?�
Fran jerked, terrified. Everyone was staring.
oITm okay. I just have to be going now. ITm
okay.� ~The bell shrieked.
Mr. Bridges threw forth a searing gaze, hot as
coals. oIs there a problem, Fran?� he asked.
Fran held up her head. oI think ITm stuck.
Whispers. Giggles. Darla stood up.
oCan I go get the janitor?� she asked.
oITm sure he can help.�
oYes, Darla, please.�
It was twenty minutes before the janitor
was able to arrive. Mr. Bridges went on
with the class. When the janitor did
arrive, he used a big, electric screwdriver
to loosen the hinge on the desk and to
swing the platform outward.
oThere,� Darla said to Fran. oThat wasnTt
fun, was it?� She glanced back at all the
gaping people.
Fran picked up her booksack and slung it
around her shoulder. oThank you,� she
muttered to the janitor and Darla. She
walked toward the front of the room, in
total silence. Mr. Bridges had suspended
his class for the time being, in order to
view the strange event.
oFat ass.�
Fran heard the words, and they pricked
her heart like little needles. She stopped
for a moment and just stood in the mid-
dle of the row. Her face held no hate or
no shame, but she stopped nonetheless.
She turned her face to the left and saw
the originator of the utterance: Matt.
Fran just stared at him, her face as
haunting as the lit pumpkins that would
grace front porches that night. She did
not flinch or look away. Matt stared back
at first, but then wavered. He gave a ner-
vous, spasmic laugh and then dipped his
head, looking at some papers on his desk.
Fran, satisfied somehow, turned her face
away and marched out of the room.
Nobody laughed.
When Fran got home, her mother was
sitting on the couch, feet up, watching
television. She had just gotten off work
at the shop.
oHave a good day at school?� Fran heard
her ask.
oFine,� Fran answered, putting her
Rebel Ninety-Five 39
40
books on the dining room table. She
moved swiftly, almost running, to her
bedroom and shut the door.
Inside, she went straight to her closet
and opened it. Within the closet hung
her regular attire, extra large sweatshirts
and sweatpants of every color. In the
back, however, a dress shimmied, a
black, satin dress that Fran had worn to
her uncleTs funeral about a year ago. It
was the only occasion she had ever both-
ered to dress up for. She whipped the
dress out of the closet and modeled it
against her body. Fran faced the
door-length mirror on the other side of
the room and did a turn in front of it. She
was going to a party tonight.
When Fran arrived, she was not exactly
shocked that she caused a major scandal.
In fact, for once, she kind of enjoyed it.
Almost everyone in the center of the
gym simultaneously stopped dancing.
Fran pretended not to notice and just
went to the dessert table. Breathlessly,
she whisked up a white paper plate and a
fork, dished herself out a healthy slice of
chocolate cake and started eating, her
eyes surveying the room.
Once she started looking at everyone
else, they stopped looking at her, resum-
ing their various activities. Kids started
dancing again under the black and
orange streamers. ~The couples by the
punch table began chatting again.
Fran finished up her cake and threw the
plate and fork in a nearby wastebasket.
Upon further inspection, she noticed that
one of the couples by the punch table
was Darla and Matt. Fran suddenly
became very, very thirsty.
When Fran reached the table, she decid-
ed upon a plastic glass of green punch
that was particularly full. One of the fac-
ulty at the punch bowl became so dis-
tracted by FranTs presence that she
Literary and Arts
missed another glass by a full three inch-
es and poured the beverage all over the
paper tablecloth. Fran could see out of
the corner of her eye that Darla was
throwing quick glimpses in her direction.
Fran turned to Darla and then smiled.
Darla sort of smiled back, looking half
bewildered. Fran shuffled over to her.
oHi,� said Fran to Darla. She didnTt even
acknowledge Matt, dressed in a sleek
black suit with an orange bow tie.
oHi, Fran.� Darla looked as lovely as
ever, dressed in white from head to toe.
oI didnTt expect to see you here.�
oI didnTt expect it either, but here I am,�
Fran said. She sipped her punch. Darla
glanced tensely around her. People ogled,
as if they were viewing a train wreck.
oTook here, Fran,� said Matt, shifting
back and forth on his two feet. oI got no
|
:
| ul | |
;
1 §
| yy
i
beef with you, other than you're an
embarassment to our school and commu-
nity. Just leave us alone. WeTve got a rep-
utation to upkeep. CTmon, Darla, letTs
get a candied apple.�
He spun around and headed to the oppo-
site side of the gym. Darla barely even
looked at Fran, and her hands gripped
each other as if holding onto a rope to
stay above water. Fran finished off her
glass of punch in one big swallow.
oITm sorry, Fran. I have to go,� said
Darla, and she turned around and walked
daintily to the other side of the room.
Everyone looked away.
Fran nodded to herself, as if in self-con-
firmation. She picked up her dress slight-
ly from the floor, turned around, and
headed out the gym doors. She had tired
of the party; these kind of events were
really not her style.
Outside, the moon gleamed. The night
was cool and crisp; perfect for little kids
to trick-or-treat, Fran thought. She felt
the wind against her dress, against her
body, and Fran felt as light as the
wind-tossed leaves that swirled around
her feet. She closed her eyes and spun
around wildly over the grass, melting into
the stars. She became one of them,
unwavering, unapologetic, for all the
world to see.
Rebel Ninety-Five 4/
Keith Phillips
Walk
First Place
(top left)
Keith Phillips
Pablo and His Bull
Third Place
(bottom left)
spe "
Pee Ce eS
rt a
Sage oe
,
tb
te
§
?
;
a
¢
as
'
SD,
Brian Woodlief
A Little Off the Top
Second Place
(inside left)
eat
ANN ee
42 Printmaking
© Dele Sel tel bE RU. OE Say Cae
8 IT aE TTT SER AL ene oa ene eee mee wee tn mene terse gee . veer Ret .-
ea oon aN ra EE ES oR eh TE fnemessneer posme yr? Lg ¥e MD TITTIES se: ey
Brent Whitson
Though ITve Seen, Heard, and Spoken
No Evils, | Still Feel a Chill
First Place
(top left)
Dana Ezzell
A Moonlit Night
Second Place
(top right)
Alana Solomon
Inside Looking Out
Honorable Mention
(bottom left)
Carrie Plank
Polariod Transfer
Third Place
(bottom right)
Photography 4
44 Metals
ant:
= :
Mary Hollingsworth
Octopus Cups
First Place
(top)
Felicia Szorad
Reliquary | and 2
Second Place
(middle)
Barton Clauss
Dream of the Dawn Razor
Third Place
(bottom)
Tim Cherry
My Box
First Place
(top)
Albert Crivelli
Series 2000 Storage Unit
Second Place
(middle)
Lauren Lampe
Ode to Three Past Mentors
Third Place
(bottom)
Wood Design 45
46 Illustration
Matt Cook
Lady in the Lake
First Place
(top left)
Kenneth Mulwee
Ode to Camille
Second Place
(top right)
Tim Cherry
Cereal Killer
Third
(left)
Paul Rustand
Cage
Editor's Choice
(right)
Alana Soloman
Taurus
Honorable Mention
(bottom left)
Bo Culpepper
The Next Shore
First Place
(top right)
Michelle Roberts
Reflections of a Time
Third Place
(left)
David Rose
Hand on the Blues
Second Place
(bottom right)
Drawing 47
m6 ed ee oh we
"_"-- " a - " _" "_"~> =
"="= ae es 2 © .. oes eee ....
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2 Sem pee oe
What © you pan as on aevar?
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hee © been 1 pe perew?
an. Poet
you wren! "
thet. | would suggest exploring af types of media one
Bean Porat
Tina Catoe and Paul Rustand
Review
Third Place
(left)
David Rose
Mielikki Catalog
First Place
(right)
Spring Semester 1994: The School of Art front eat
students, faculty and alumni exhibit their
Toe kA Y
Thursday Aged §) meih 9 Boss of ear temen ond emu geten
pee
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damwory 4 - Maret © Gregory Amonett Works os Paper (8/5 89) Ket on pec ure
4 ® "C&ecaromes
Arian Pagar Vy Cationg C
one tne WC ART REACH sho
| OD Reyne eck area of the school. Recipients of Excellence
4g RCW Sebent of Art Masters Exbibities ong ae ote
fine tnmnecp Aer Maney eae oe eenoemam ee oases
5 ner toe om Tosco Sam Umnviod Weed Denmge Dene Lite ne
- anGeece §«=" hehe Teves heege 2! te, Coys Pomme 0 ape ape
al Dame ners Coe Umterm sie: throng Scam 6) apm tne
Aagete Goeredimes " Expasure & Ege Pes Resume Benge
erenass Cove Some Marnng fesewvt Memmmes Pru Rusiend 4 Secor of
f Abas Cigar " Wy Calony Cort Aga a ae #
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Advctic Peters " Goria Silken Benet , Dosage tum Scatpmse Us ge 0 nes ComteT Oeat
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Rereccs Fase Umotiod Prammahsag Lach Paden o
Levees Compete: Grophacs Jernte Aesre Unusies Pa rad
teamescene Watts Stee Berscr Sue lowe aE a SO
Dallery calendar for spring 1994
48 Graphic Design
ee ey eee ""e = = =
iat al and i USN EER A ae - " vy ny
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SET Yar VETER Y Wa Bel U6 rene s
here's a classic down-to
earth quality that is inherent
in our clothes, a quality that only
nature could provide
At Mielikki we aspice to enhance
your unique sense of style and
beauty. In our effort to bring you
these qualities, our clothes are
crafted with a personal touch. Each
garment is made by an individual
craftsperson trom beginning to end
Rooted in the Finnish folk epic
the Kalevala, the name Mielikki
embodies the very essence of nature
For us, the captivating passages of
the mistress of the forest� reflect
what we strive for, natural elegance
A. Knit Toboggans
Cotton-knit toboggans of
area true necessity
item 432 Basic Tobeggan $7
ttem 442 Speck Toboggan $9
B. Pleated Blouse
Fine pleats and flowing
form give this blousea
romantic flavor
item 203 Pleated Blouse $26
C. Embroidered Blouse
and Hand-Batiked Pants
This delicete blouse and
hand-batiked pants make
@ perfect combination
ttem St) Embr Blouse $30
Item 535 Batik Pants a4
A. White Blouse with
Collar and Floral Print
Skirt
;
B. Speckled Sweater
~ veat
eppe
Collage Sweater
Graphic Design 49
sequathd
rit tty
|
50 Graphic Design
we
-itt
s
"_ 4454038
o41542 9s4yysaiysats
Tim Cherry
Paul Rustand
Autumn Wilkins
Alana Solomon
Ken Humphries
Joshua Dowd
Paula Creech
Kevin France
Kyung Lee
Ed Marsden
Janet Elliott
Chris Stevens
Kristi Stainback
Greek Recipes
Typography 2 Class
Second Place
350° FOR 30 TO 40 MINUTES.
: »
INTO A GREASED PAN AND
er
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psyru (psyru syrups rupsyrupsy:
Osyrups
Rebel Ninety-Five
51
Chery! Johnson
Fragmentation: Cotton Plant
First Place
(top left)
Jeanne Brady
Sacred Places
Third Place
(top right)
Gene Pittman
Sisyphus
Honorable Mention
(right)
Jerry Jackson
Please Say You Will Dance
Second Place
(bottom left)
52 Painting
""
lrene Bailey
July 3, 1944
Best in Show
Rebel Ninety-Five
Fr) ent ee
i.
Font nmmenen nese eo nts eae TON
na a
| me
= 2
= © cor
" " "
Oo oO = = _"
= » aed lonat @ Cc -_ um
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aq Ne "=S " OT ao et tk. =
4 Sculpture
5
Pee eS ar il br) ate t ton ee by ee es
Jeanne Brady
Just Not So
Second Place
(top left)
Anna Krauss
Maybe Not So Fab
Third Place
(top right)
Jeanne Brady
Clothe Me in Your Powers
First Place
(bottom)
aI
ai
Textiles
56
Joe Winter
Piece of Time
First Place
(right)
Alana Solomon
Simply Classic
Honorable Mention
(top left)
Jerry Jackson f
Picking Cotton On Porch Sone oaa
Third Place o ae ie ie
(middle left) aaa ARE
va ay
Ernst Meyer
Roll
Honorable Mention
(bottom left)
Jerry Jackson
Every Saturday Afternoon
Second Place
(inside left)
Ceramics 57
a
Muy GrandmotHer Jo
iillustrated by Christopher K. Jameson
y grandmother Jo, throughout was pressing up against a nerve in her
her life, has always been a fairly spine and was giving her severe back
attractive woman. She is fairly witty and problems. She went into surgery at Duke
is the giver of my poor eyesight and Medical Center, but unfortunately the
Protestant Northern Irish ancestry. She cancer was too big to remove. She has
and my grandfather Fred have always since gone through many treatments of
been very youthful. ~They spent the fif- chemotherapy. ~The final treatment was a
teen years after their retirement living thirty-hour session that took place at the
out of a motor-home as they travelled end of August. ~The day after which, she
through Europe. I spent the summer was neither able to speak nor recognize
with them in Ireland when I was about anyone around her.
eleven years old. Most of my memories
of that summer are of rainy green days
and of me sitting on the sidelines of skir-
mishes between the British and Irish
boys of the camping grounds. ~These two
wild geezers are avid bird watchers and
fishermen. They are lovers of the outdoors
and history. My grandmother, through all
of her interests, is a magnificent cook sup-
plied by her own garden. ~These sensation-
al senior citizens of mine eventually plot-
ted down in Wilmington, North Carolina.
This past spring, cancer was detected in
my grandmother JoTs liver. ~The tumor
58 Literary and Arts
a
I NS nail cA RE
Chis Labor Day weekend is the first
time I have seen her since she fell ill. As
I walk up the the driveway to the front of
the house, I notice a newly constructed
wheelchair ramp leading out of the garage
door. For the first time this hot day, my
squinting eyes loosen, letting my cheeks
drop, flattening my lips.
The picture of my grandmother in its
glass frame is flung across my brain
Shattering against the inside of my
Skull. A feeling of numbness takes hold
of the reins in my body as I subliminal-
ly prepare for the sight of my dying
elder. Not sure if I am ready, I knock
On the door. I am greeted by my grand-
father. A northerner, he has not lost his
Rocklin County, New York accent. I
glance down at the side table, next to
the door, laden with their neighborsT
offerings of oChristTs blessing during
your time of need� books, as my grand-
father leads me inside.
oMy my, Avroom I like your haircut!
Hey no earrings, lookin sharp! Yes
come in, come in. Set your things
down. Your grandmotherTs in the bed-
room. Oh Jo! Your grandson is here.�
I follow the trail of a plastic tube run-
ning from a large humidifier into their
bedroom. The opposite end of the
tube found its way, like a cocaine
straw, into the lifeless face of my
grandmother. Her skin lay loose on the
bed, raised to show the bones of her
arms and collar bone. The rest of her
skeleton is hidden by her thick shirt.
Her eyes and cheeks are sunken and
black. Her ankles are swollen, dry and
scaled. Not knowing what to savy or
how to react, I offer her my gift of
flowers, half-dead themselves, cheaply
purchased at the Winn Dixie afew
blocks from their house. ~To my sur-
prise the gift is cheerfully accepted.
oOh Avram what a surprise. Sit down.�
She smiles. As I sit next to her on the
bed, the discussion wanders from her
telling stories of my mother and my
uncles when they were children to her
joking about what colored wigs she is
going to wear once her hair falls out.
She is dying: her body already lifeless
and gutted with infection. Her spirit,
however, is youthful and uplifted. No
longer having to worry about the frivo-
lities and trials of life, she lives it with
all of its full richness. Confined to her
home, she sits on her screened-in
porch and watches my grandfather gar-
den. ~The hummingbird comes to feed
off the sugar water that has been set
out. Surrounded by fluttering yellow
butterflies and giant gypsy moths, |
realize that I shouldnTt feel sorry for
her, because that isnTt what she wants.
All I can do is celebrate with her all
those things that can not be taken
away. Behind the dark; lifeless mask of
shadows and tube-clinging nostrils, is
the girl most excited about the tennis
match between Andre Agassi and
Michael Chang and the most eager to
hear about the details of my love life
during the summer. Most of all, when |
look at my grandmother, I see the
woman most appreciative and happiest
to be alive, she is life.
Rebel Ninety-Five
""
es Digere: a rie et
illustrated by Kristi Stainback re ph ies Ni aa te See eS
Sits on her grandmother's
front porch one
%,
ong
small
rocking:
chair child
rocking
on bassoon : ee 7 2
(of all instruments for a = Fa) a E sai Se aes A y Sep anes A # A i, Pe i x
an eight-year-old cae a3 DG tage .
wearing cotton fabric
on a hot day)
and
all of her is
Slouch socked =e
saddle shoes = i [aa oe, oes : a = ip pp
waiting for 5:30 as ex Bon Sa Z : ee = = Chg AEE. e
notes squiggle outward, tee | er | ?
dangerous | ws;
while she Z Se
dreams catsuped LIBS ims oh Mag DG A iS Yee: Sh ph eames Bee ae
french fries, 2 , } :
cokes
(cola ,
and feels the key = ae aN mee CE Coo ¢ Bp =
strung Bea me B/ o=>
like music EZ ge ees . por | , o 4 az? ai. =
around her neck |
and slowly,
hungry and hot, .
downshifts into ~ | |
soundlessness Sea a a Fi SOU SNES Ee
60 Literary and Arts Py ag
| , as nn? tag .
SLAG po ae
a . ~
tt a BO gy
He
a i
. oae.
Ms
"_"
STFFN SLEDS EAN I REED ben sie brent pe
pe var otamemee.
+ ote
Sa
Set
»* +
SERS CAE EEDA CAGE Tata ea net
Ol EE Tee ONT ATE aR? OTE Psi AE A ade ins dso Re ee nye oF
"
ERE
~ i . - +
"""" I a
- - = : = _
_ =
lke Oo
62 Literary anc
© Ves MET Se Lak ins en a ee es
the dinner engagement
adenciensivunitinsdnibemmmtioiecnins| soettetetaeee eee TT TT
ee: Rete Rea
illustrated by Brian Wood
he first thing I noticed was her
hairy armpits. ITd never seen a
girl who had hairy armpits. I was only
fifteen and hadnTt experienced a lot of
life (a fact which Daddy ceaselessly
pointed out), but it was apparently a
shock for my mother of forty-five too,
because she dropped the big, wooden
spoon she used to scoop mashed potatoes,
oHow clumsy of me,� Mama said. She
stooped over and retrieved the spoon
from the small, green and black Carpet
that welcomed visitors into our house.
My mother was still trim and fetching
for her age. She had maybe become a
little thicker about the hips since her
teenage years and her brown hair now
had strands of silver, but she hadnTt
changed much over time. Happening
upon some of her schoolage pictures
tucked away in a drawer once, I was sur-
prised at the likenesses of the pictures
lief
Rebel Ninety-Five
POPES.
u
RS PT he
: ia)
64
to her present form. If the pictures had
been in color, | would have been
hard-pressed to tell from what part of
her life they had originated.
After standing again, my mother said,
oOh, come in, wonTt your�
Helen entered the door, followed by
my older brother, Stephen. He had
called a week ago with the unforeseen
disclosure that he was going to marry a
girl he had met at college. As I recall,
my mother dropped something at that
time too. It was like a reflex for her.
Stephen was very tall and slender, with
curly brown hair and clean-scrubbed
good looks that made him seem
younger than his twenty-two years.
oTell Daddy to be nice,� he had told
my mother. oSheTs a different sort of
person, but I think you'll like her.
SheTs very nice.� My younger brother
Robert and I had been listening in on
the phone in DaddyTs office upstairs.
Somehow, Stephen had avoided a con-
versation with Daddy that night. It was
a wise move, but still only a postpone-
ment of the inevitable.
They had arranged to meet her this
weekend, and I| had been dreading it all
week. ~Those interminable dinners
when Stephen visited were such a
chore. Everyone would munch on their
food amid the uneasy silence, waiting
for the Big Outburst. Daddy always ini-
tiated the quarrels, followed by
StephenTs well-rehearsed rebuttal. ~The
episode would end with Mama saying
something along the lines of oPlease,
letTs not do this.� Later, we would hear
the sound of screeching tires as
StephenTs little ~Toyota tore out of the
yard. All the while, Robert and I would
try to continue with our meal. ItTs quite
difficult, however, to get people to pass
the fried chicken when several mem-
bers of the family are pounding on the
table, shouting at each other, and hurl-
ing silverware. But this situation was
Literary and Arts
different. | mean, the girl had armpit
hair. This one was going to be a doozy.
My father met Stephen and Helen in
the kitchen as they walked toward the
living room. Our house was a two-story
country-style house with varnished
walls and floors and spacious windows.
We lived in a basically quiet part of
Eastern North Carolina, though with
easy access to cities and their some-
times necessary provisions. Although
our home was reasonably representative
of the houses of our upper-middle class
neighbors in the area, it had at least a
few peculiarities that distinguished it
from others. For one, none of the
rooms, save for the bedrooms, had car-
pet. All the floors were bare, tan, and
scuffed, thanks to three brothers who
had spent years using and abusing
every feature of their home as they
grew up within its walls. I often
believed that the reason for those cold,
naked floors was that, since carpet muf-
fled footsteps, the floorsT creakiness
acted as a kind of alarm to alert our par-
ents of any covert activities we may
have tried to undertake. Nothing went
on in that house that my Daddy didnTt
know about.
~The house was mainly decorated by my
mother. Mama liked trinkets. It didnTt
really matter what they were, exactly,
but they were everywhere: on the man-
tle over the fireplace, the coffee table
by the couch, the toilet, the book
shelves, the piano, the secretary, all
over the place. ~The house was adorned
with big red candles, crystal figurines
(most in the shape of farm animals),
seashell sculptures, an abstract
[.-shaped jade bookend that, to me,
resembled Satan, brass and glass bells,
and, my personal favorite, a tiny ceram-
ic frog sitting in a rocking chair and
reading 7he Wall Street Journal. Really,
though, I didnTt see our house as being
too dissimilar from the houses of my
friends at school, on the outside. ~The
inside, the people, my family, well, that
was something entirely different.
Here we all were, gathered in a cluster
in the center of the kitchen, except for
Robert, who was still in his room trying
to fix his tie just right. Mama, as
always, gave the introductions.
oHenry, this is Helen,� she said, still in
a semi-stupor from her shock. Helen
lifted her arm, her pits in full glory, and
shook my fatherTs hand warmly. Daddy
had black hair and a tanned, distin-
guished face full of wrinkles. ~The fact
of those wrinkles always mystified me,
for his face never changed from that
one ever-present soulful expression.
There was no opportunity for his fea-
tures to be creased or tightened, as Is
required for various emotions. A smile
never passed his lips, nor a frown. ITm
sure he noticed what everyone else did,
but he didnTt let on.
oItTs nice to meet you,� Helen said.
oITve been looking forward to this day.�
oAnd so have we,� Daddy said, fore-
bodingly.
Once I could drag my eyes away from
her armpits, | noticed that Helen was
quite a catch. She had long, wavy
brown hair that cascaded down her
back like a waterfall. She was thin, but
not gaunt, and wore a yellow and white
outfit that perfectly complemented the
sun-filled weekend. Her eyes glim-
mered like little round emeralds. She
must have worn the sleeveless blouse
because of the unusually steamy tem-
peratures of that March day. I won-
dered if she knew about the furriness
of her armpits and what a scandal it was
causing even as we spoke.
oHow was the drive?� Daddy asked,
looking past Helen at Stephen.
Stephen put his hands in his pockets,
but then quickly withdrew them, draping
one arm across HelenTs tanned shoulders.
2 i 5 ec AOA EC ON ston
It was a nice drive. WasnTt it, Helen?�
oOh, yes. Lovely,� Helen answered,
smiling brightly. She continued to
smile at everyone individually as sec-
onds ticked in the hush that enveloped
the group. A door opened upstairs and
footsteps tapped in the hall. It was
Robert. We all watched as he reached
the end of the upstairs hallway, visible
as a balcony, hurried down the stairs,
and bounded into the kitchen. Like
me, he had on his Sunday best. We had
to dress up for this momentous event.
Robert approached Helen. He immedi-
ately extended his hand. oHi, ITm
Ro"� Robert started. He gazed wide-
eyed upon what everybody else had
already noticed.
My father stood like a statue. You
could practically hear the gears in his
head grinding.
o"bert,� Mama finished, ever the
Savior. Robert forced a weak smile
somehow. Mama turned her attention
back to the matter at hand. oStephen,
Why donTt you and Helen go into the
living room and have a seat? Dinner
will be ready in about five minutes.�
oThank you, Mrs. McMurphy,� Helen
said. oI'd offer to help you in the
kitchen, but bad things happen when I
Set near an oven.� With that, everyone
but Mama went to the living room and
had a seat.
Despite MamaTs bric-a-brac scattered
about the area, our living room was far
from elaborate. It featured two couches,
4 ten-year-old television set, and
DaddyTs grey recliner. Daddy sat in his
chair, Stephen and Helen on the brown
couch closest to the recliner, and
Robert and I on the brown and black
Paisley couch at the opposite wall.
Robert leaned over to me as we seated
Ourselves and whispered, oLet the
ames begin.� | discreetly elbowed him
in the ribs.
Daddy, now perched upon his throne,
started the conversation. oSo, Helen, we
really donTt know that much about you.
Why donTt you enlighten us a little bit.
What are you majoring in at college?�
oITm a theatre major. I plan to be an
actress.�
Daddy grunted. oNot much money in
that, is there?�
oWell, youTre basically either dirt poor
or fabulously rich. But I love it.
ITm"weTre"not in it for the money
anyway,� said Helen. oOf course, a
dream of mine and StephenTs would be
to get a job at the same theatre group. |
would act and he would design sets. I
think weTll do okay.�
A televangelist was on Channel 17,
explaining that if you enjoyed sex even
infrequently, you would go to Hell.
oT tried to get Stephen to be an archi-
tect instead,� Daddy said, obut, of
course, he wouldnTt listen to me.�
oI am going to be an architect,�
Stephen said, nervously laughing. oSort
of.� Daddy snorted at that and Stephen
looked slightly irritated at DaddyTs dis-
missal of his career choice.
oDaddy,� Stephen said, putting aside
his annoyance, oHelen just got one of
the lead parts in the school production
of An American in Paris. Have you ever
seen that?�
oNo.�
oIt was made into a movie. Gene Kelly
was in it, I think. Did you see it?�
oNo.�
oHim and Leslie. .. .Leslie. .. .oh, who
was it, honey?�
oCaron. Leslie Caron,� said Helen.
oI didnTt see it,� Daddv said.
oHelen is a great singer, too. IsnTt that
right?� Stephen asked, turning to her.
His hands rubbed together, as if trying
to stay warm. |
oWhatever you say, Stephen,� Helen
said, almost laughing. oITm a wonderful
person, Mr. McMurphy. I distribute
rice to starving Ethiopians and hug lep-
ers in my spare time.� She placed one of
her tiny hands on StephenTs and ceased
their restless jittering. oStephen tells me
you work at a bank, Mr. McMurphy.�
oITm the administrator at the United
Carolina Bank just up the road aways.�
lhatTs interesting. My uncle, before
he died, worked as a lawyer for a bank
in Chicago.�
We're not as big and fancy as those
banks up in Chicago, I guess,� Daddy
said, his face as set as concrete.
oAre you kidding? This must be an
absolutely fantastic place to live. So
quiet. Believe me, visiting the city once
in awhile is quite enough. I grew up in
Boston. People think just because itTs
in a small state, it canTt be all that bad.
But we had it all: poverty, crime, slums,
traffic. ItTs where I grew up, though, and
I have a special place in my heart for it.�
oDo your parents still live there?�
Robert asked, suddenly deciding to
participate in the conversation.
oMy mother does, Robert,� she said
My parents were divorced when I was ten
and he lives in Hawaii with his new wife.�
So thatTs why sheTs so bizarre. I could
imagine my mother thinking. Those
kids from broken homes, they never do
turn out right. 7
Rebel Ninety-Five 65
PATTI S e
14.
ec et en
a ee RS
As if in retaliation to MamaTs gross
deductions about Helen, I said, oItTs so
nice meeting someone from a different
place. Everybody here has always
been here.�
oThereTs nothing wrong with living in
the same place all your life,� Daddy
said quickly. oFirst thing kids want to
do nowadays is leave home. It ainTt
always right.�
oI didnTt mean that. I just meant"�
oThatTs what you said, though, isnTt
it?� | wished I hadnTt even opened my
mouth. Daddy continued. oAnyway,
Helen, when do you graduate?�
oThis spring"lI hope!�
oWhat are you going to do when you
get out of school?�
oLook for work, I guess. Maybe move
west to California. Or north, to New
York. And, of course, be with my new
husband,� Helen said, beaming at
Stephen. Just in those few minutes that
| had known Helen, I couldnTt help but
like her. Even though she was a perfect
model of everything Daddy claimed
was wrong with the world, I became
convinced, with no evidence whatsoev-
er, that Stephen had done good. Daddy
was smart"that much was a fact"but
he didnTt know everything. Stephen
had done real good.
oYouTd better put some real thought
into it,� Daddy said using a wooden
match he had taken from a box beside
his recliner and lighting a Winston from
the pack he always kept in his shirt
pocket. oAnd do you have something to
fall back on, if the acting thing doesnTt
work out?�
oFall back on?� Helen asked, her
eyebrows arching quizzically.
oSomething you can do if that acting
Literary and Arts
thing doesnTt work out,� Daddy said,
exhaling smoke with each syllable.
Helen looked truly confused, as if she
had never even considered the possibil-
ity. oNo,� she finally said, positively.
oIt'll work out,� she said,
looking straight at Daddy, obecause it
has to.�
oDaddy,� Stephen said, color rising in
his cheeks, owhy is everything you
donTt like a oAing? A book ts a ohing. A
plant is a oding. Acting is not a ohing. Set
design is not a oing.�
Robert leaned over to me and mut-
tered, oUh-oh.�
oTheyTre professions, just like every-
thing else. If | wanted to be a nuclear
physicist, you wouldnTt say, oOh, but
what if that nuclear physics oing does-
nTt work out?T Or ~what if that air-traffic
�
controller oAing doesnTt work out?T
Stephen seemed to grow even more
inflamed with each passing second.
Although Stephen always stated that he
and Daddy were complete opposites in
everything, a quick temper was some-
thing they shared.
Stephen continued, oI guess some-
bodyTll find me lying drunk in a
drainage ditch one day and whenever
somebody asks about me, theyTll just
say, ~Oh, his oimg didnTt work out.T
Thing, thing, thing. | get so tired of
your thing.�
Daddy just sat there and didnTt say,
well, a thing. Mama materialized from
the kitchen in the nick of time, wiping
her hands on her ruffled apron. oYou
can all come on now. Helen, Stephen, |
hope chicken ts all right.�
oThatTs fine, Mama,� Stephen said, still
looking miffed and avoiding eye con-
tact with Daddy. oHelen doesnTt eat
red meat, but chicken ts all right, isnTt
it, Helen? You eat that, donTt your�
oChicken sounds great, Mrs.
McMurphy,� said Helen. oITm starving.
I could eat a tire right now.�
After we were all seated at the table
and the blessing was said, we all began
eating. [he meal consisted of fried
chicken (Helen removed the skin),
mashed potatoes, peas, stuffing, rice,
biscuits, and pickled pears that were
left over from the church covered-dish
supper the night before. We all thank-
fully were at least halfway through the
meal before the conversation began its
next inevitable turn for the worse. As
always, it started out innocently
enough. I was seated on one side of
Helen and Stephen at the end opposite
Daddy. | remember noticing that
Helen smelled like flowers. I donTt
know if it was a perfume or if she just
really smelled that nice. She took a sip
of tea and then turned to me.
oSo, you and Robert both go to the
same school?� she asked.
oYeah, weTre almost in the same grade,
too,� I said, finishing up a mouthful
+.
of rice. oITm in eleventh and heTs
in tenth.�
oMama and Daddy kept having
babies until they got it right,� said
Robert, giggling and trying to eat
peas at the same time.
oRobert,� Mama said, in her most
admonishing tone of voice, owe donTt
discuss procreation at the table.�
oYeah, shut up Robert,� I said, boiling.
I didnTt like being made fun of in front
of visitors, especially ones that smelled
like flowers. oAfter your last report
card, thereTs some debate about whoTs
the mistake.�
oOh, yeah?� said Robert. oDidnTt
you hear? ~CT stands for ~Caution:
Genius Ahead.T�
i AU a A NR Aa
oOh, just shut up,� I spat at him.
oWhy donTt you both shut up?� Daddy
Suggested, and we did, glaring at each
other across the table.
Helen smiled. oWe could just clear out
a place on the carpet and let them go at
it,� she said. Daddy, I think, was
amused by this statement, but didnTt
Show it. And, actually, the suggestion
wasnTt without its attractive points at
the time.
oKids have so much trouble these days
in school. And you know why? Too
many courses they donTt need. ~They
need to get back to the basics: math
and grammar. You canTt do jack squat
if you canTt add and spell.� Daddy
looked right at Helen. The seed had
been planted.
Stephen answered. oI think kids also
need to be exposed to classes with
Music and art and theatre as well. I
think itTs just as important.�
oKids get out of school these days and
Cannot even spell their own names! ItTs
all fouled up. They talk about how
schools need more money. They donTt
need anymore money. They shouldnTt
spend what they have on silly things
like... like the school Robert and Trent
£0 to has a big skylight in the ceiling of
the library. I mean, what are light
Switches for?�
oI do think environment is important in
how well we learn,� I said, once again
making a stab at engaging in the verbal
activities of this lovely dinner.
oYouTre not there to look,� said Daddy,
Staring right through me. oYou're there
to learn.�
Well, God, itTs not boot camp,�
said Stephen.
Maybe if it was more like the army,
children would learn more and not act
up so much,� Daddy said, shoveling in
a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
oWhy not?� Stephen asked mockingly.
oAnd if a kid acts up, all the other kids
can just drag him to the latrine and
stick his head in a toilet.�
oI agree with some of what you're say-
ing, Mr. McMurphy,� Helen said
quickly, trying to make light of the
topic. oBut I donTt know where I'd be
if | wasnTt exposed to some kind of art
in high school. ~That was when I real-
ized what I wanted to do with my life.�
Daddy responded icily, oMaybe you
wouldnTt be here...� --everyone was
mute-- o...making the biggest mistake
of your life.�
Helen looked downward, away from
DaddyTs sharp gaze. No one seemed to
be breathing.
oI knew you'd do this,� Stephen said,
brimming with bitterness.
oWhat am I supposed to do, Stephen?�
asked Daddy. oJust stand around and
twiddle my thumbs while you go
through with this crazy thing?�
oItTs not crazy,� Stephen responded
straightforwardly. oItTs the... sanest
thing ITve ever done, I'll tell you that
right now. I have no doubts, none,
about our decision. None at all.�
Daddy shook his head, in an almost
jeeringly sad way. oYouTre just fool-
ish youngsters. You donTt know what
you want.�
oITd expect such a comment like that
about any of us, but Helen is a guest. |
guess I was just idiotic in thinking that
you would at least be kind to her.�
oWell, sheTll be family soon,�
Daddy said.
And weTre no children,� said Stephen
straightening up in his chair. oHelen
and I are both twenty-two.�
oNo mature adult would do such an
ignorant thing as you two are doing.�
g.
Mama seemed oblivious to the goings-
on around her. She picked up her dish
of pickled pears and thrust them in
HelenTs direction, saying, oWould you
like some pears, Helen?�
oNo, thank you, Mrs. McMurphy.�
oAre you sure? TheyTre fresh; not
canned,� Mrs McMurphy added.
oShe doesnTt want any goddamned
pickled pears, Sally,� Daddy said
cruelly. oNobody likes them. |
donTt know why you always fix the
damned things.�
stephen looked aghast. oThat wasnTt
very nice,� he said. oYouTre mad at me
not at her.�
oPll be mad at whoever the hell |
want!� Daddy screamed across the
table. oWeTre trying to have a conversa-
tion and your mother is offering the girl
pickled pears.�
oYou know, ~the girlT has a name:
Helen,� grumbled Stephen.
oWell, you know, Stephen, you always
did have a sassy mouth,� said :
Daddy. oI donTt know why, I sure
didnTt raise you that way. I was too
easy on you, | guess.�
Maybe youTre right. I guess you
shouldTve first given us a good, stiff
swat in the back of the head if we ever
tried to defend ourselves.�
oWell, now that you mention it.
Stephen, the strategy looks enticing
right now,� said Daddy, shaking his
head in agreement.
Rebel Ninety-Five
67
SR pr 1
==
68
Literary and Arts
oTl wouldnTt put it past you, you maniac.�
oWell, this was a mistake.� Robert
muttered.
oRobert, shut up! DonTt say another
word for the rest of the meal!�
Daddy roared.
oAnother word,� Robert whispered,
turning away. Lucky for all our ear
drums, the utterance was so low that
Daddy didnTt hear it. If there was
one thing we didnTt need, it was two
shouting matches.
- aac l
oIs that your answer to everything,
Daddy?� Stephen asked. oIf somebody
says something you donTt like, you
scream and threaten to hit them!�
oThat is not my answer to everything
and if you say anything else of the sort
and donTt shut up, I'll give you a pop
you'll never forget!�
Stephen pushed his chair back and
stood up. He made beckoning motions
toward Daddy. oYou think you can take
me, old man? CTmon! CTmon!�
Daddy threw down his napkin and
started to rise. oDonTt tempt me,
Stephen. DonTt tempt me!�
oYou havenTt finished your stuffing
yet,� Mama said scoldingly.
Stephen appeared fairly upset by this
point. oI think you should apologize to
Mama right now!�
oITm just trying to run this house the
way | see fit. I donTt think thatTs
anything to apologize for,� said
Daddy, crossing his arms in front of
his chest defiantly.
Stephen let out a cry of agony and
sank into his chair. oOh, youTre so
maddening!�
I was somewhat startled to hear Helen
speak up, for she had been so quiet up
to this point. oReally, Stephen, donTt
you think youTre being a tad melodra-
matic?� She looked kind of annoyed.
oPass the pickled pears... pass the
pickled pears...� Stephen repeated, as if
chanting an incantation.
oOh, my God,� Robert said. oHeTs
finally lost his mind.�
oIT thought I told you to shut up,�
said Daddy.
No, he hasnTt lost his mind,�
Helen said. oHeTs just being
incredibly ignorant.�
Dance :
Pass the pickled pears... pass the
pickled pears...� Stephen said again.
Helen looked very irritated now.
Stephen, if you donTt quit that right
this minute, ITm going to douse you
with my tea,� she said. He quit.
oNow, weTre not going to get anywhere
with this senseless bickering,� said
Helen after a few seconds. oI think
we can all at least try to be civil to
each other.�
Robert said, amazed, oYouTre talking
about ohis familv?�
Goddamnit, Robert, how many times
do I have to tell you to shut up?�
Daddy blared.
an * | ae � . oow , .
Please, Robert,� I said, oYou're just
making things worse.�
Robert did actually look a little sorry he
had made that last remark and said
nothing, picking up his glass and taking
4 swallow of tea. Stephen appeared
coherent, at least for the moment.
oWhat upsets me the most is how he
doesnTt even treat us like people,� said
Stephen. oHe shouldnTt have said
that to Mama.�
Daddy didnTt move and didnTt blink.
Chere was no way he was going to
apologize. Mama looked at every-
oneTs plates.
Who wants dessert?� she asked.
Stephen rolled his eyes and threw up
his hands, oI give up. ITm done trying.�
He looked over at me and Robert. oAll
I can say is to get out of this madhouse
4S soon as possible.�
Robert and I contemplated these
words. We both could not deny the
envy we felt for Stephen. We had both
dreamed of leaving, getting out, away
from the stifling encroachment of
DaddyTs views and convictions upon
our own. We had both felt the desire to
speak out and be heard, but we lived in
a world where such uninhibited
exchanges were only to be hungered,
not fulfilled.
Mama was a willing victim. ~his was
the life she had chosen. She knew what
she was getting into when she married
Daddy and, in her own little world, she
was happy. Even now, sitting through
this insufferable little confabulation,
she was probably just thinking about
washing the dishes. ~he way she had
lived, such life-altering affairs as cor-
recting a wayward son were best left up
to someone who knew more than she.
oYou mind me, Stephen, and you two
as well,� Daddy said, leaning toward
Robert and me. oI know whatTs best for
you all at this point in your life. ITve
been around a lot longer. ~VhatTs how |
can see that, Stephen, your so-called
marriage is doomed to failure.�
oYeah, you know so much more about
the world,� Stephen said sarcastically,
oYou've spent your entire life in the
same stupid town.�
oThatTs true,� Daddy said, obut pretty
much everything goes on here that goes
on in other places. ITve seen marriages
like yours come and go. It'll crumble
and collapse within a year.� Daddy
thought about it a few seconds. oNo, |
donTt even give it that long.�
oThanks for the speech, Daddy, but a
~best wishesT wouldTve sufficed.
ThereTs no need to get so mushy.�
Helen placed her hands in her lap and
looked Daddy straight in the eye and
said, oMr. McMurphy, I understand
your concern and appreciate it. I know
itTs well-meant, but this is not a deci-
sion weTve jumped into haphazardly.�
Helen said, focusing on DaddyTs ,
unflinching face, oWhy would we take
this lightly? We plan to be married for
the rest of our lives. WeTve really, real-
ly, really thought about it.�
oNobody makes all the right decisions,
and who'd want to? Mistakes are
the things we most learn from. If we al]
waited to be perfectly sure of every-
thing we did, we would get very little
accomplished,� Helen continued. oBut
based on what Stephen and I know
about each other and our love for each
other, weTre making a leap forward into
unknown territory, yes, but to a place
that could make our life more satisfying
and fulfilling than it is now.� a
Helen shifted her position and turned
to Stephen. Over her face passed a
countenance from which emerged both
pure adoration and a confidence, an
undeniable confidence; the decision
she and Stephen had made was perfect-
ly, perfectly right. I had never seen mv
parents look at each other with a devo-
tion that was so blatant and pure. Come
to think of it I donTt think they ever
looked at each other at all. Helen took
StephenTs hand.
oStephen was so nervous about me
meeting you,� she said. oWeTve known
each other quite awhile, actually. |
couldnTt understand his apprehension
at our meeting, but I think I do now.
Mr. McMurphy, I know you Oppose our
marriage and thatTs okay, but if you're
the dog to our proverbial fire hydrant
every time we see each other, none of
us will lead happy lives. ITm sure ]
speak for Stephen when I say that vour
advice is gladly welcomed, but if you
sit there and say that weTre ~doomed to
failureT... ITm sorry, but you can kiss my
tail.� Daddy flinched. I couldn't ,
believe it.
Rebel Ninety-Five 69
Daddy said, oThat kind of talk is just
meant to be hurtful and it sure as hell
doesnTt change anybodyTs mind. ~These
kind of discussions donTt serve any
purpose at all and just leave everyone
feeling bad.�
o| think both you and Stephen have
perfectly illustrated what happens
when brains malfunction. But at least
Stephen had his heart in the right
place. ITm afraid that you left your heart
out of the situation completely.� Quite
a few seconds passed before somebody
said something.
Literary and Arts
oWe have chocolate cake,� Mama said.
Everybody sat perfectly still, as if pos-
ing for some kind of grotesque family
portrait. Finally, Daddy said softly, oI
think I'll have a piece.� Mama was up
out of her seat in a flash and almost
darted to the kitchen. Everyone just
picked at their food in silence for a
minute or two.
At last, Daddy spoke up, turning his
focus back to Stephen. oWell,o he said,
ol advise that you donTt get married. In
fact, I strongly advise it.�
oThanks for the recommendation,
Daddy, but I think weTve made up
our minds,� Stephen said, firmly
but not unkindly.
oWhen will this historic event take
place, do you think?�
oWe're thinking about the end of this
year. Not too soon,� Helen said, tearing
a chunk from a biscuit.
oGood, that gives you more time to
change your mind,� Daddy said.
Stephen and Helen sighed simultane-
ously-exasperated.
If you want to,� Daddy added quickly.
Mama arrived at the table with a silver
tray filled with dainty white saucers,
each holding a piece of chocolate cake.
She began placing a saucer down at
each place.
Besides,� Daddy said, owe have to
S!ve you all at least a little more time to
&et to know each other.�
oHow much better can I get to know
Stephen?� asked Helen, dryly. oI
mean, ITve already seen his penis like a
million times.�
DaddyTs fork plunged with a clank onto
the floor. I reflected that this was the
first time that the word ~penisT had
been spoken in our house. Mama put
the last plate down in front of Daddy
and sat down herself.
oTell me if you like it,� Mama said.
oItTs something different.�
Rebel Ninety-Five
7]
n the tiny autobiography in the liner
notes of Johnny CashTs new release,
American Recordings, Cash writes of being
a boy in northeast Arkansas and
returning home from singing on the
porch with his friend.
ee AO
oThe long walk home alone at night was
t 5
scary. It was pitch dark on the gravel road
and if the moon was shining, the shadows
were even scarier. Ihe panthers sounded
closer, and I just knew that every dark spot
on the road was a cottonmouth snake ready
to kill me. But I sang all the way home ...
and decided that that kind of music was
going to be my magic to take me through
all the dark places.�
ItTs difficult not to think of anything dark
when regarding Cash. ~The first, best oman
in black� and a performer famous for
playing to inmates in prisons, Cash is a
perfect choice for producer Rick Rubin
(Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers) to
present to modern rock audiences who
want to tap their feet while hanging their
gloomy heads. Admittedly, hearing that
Rubin was working the boards for CashTs
new CD, I thought of oThe Wanderer,�
the singerTs techno-gospel turn on U/2Ts
Zooropa and imagined the death cries of
long-time fans condemning another
legendary performer selling out to get into
the wallets of Generation X.
Well, listen up, all you maudlin slackers
and musical purists, ocause American
Recordings is untainted Cash"solo acoustic
performances with the famous bruised soul
and earth-crumbling voice. What Rubin
has wrought is a tremendous package that
both encapsulates the genre of music Cash
has performed for most of his 62 years and
gives those unfamiliar with CashTs work a
perfect introduction.
Recordings is a haunted album about
conviction and confession. Leonard
CohenTs oBird on A Wire,� Nick LoweTs
oThe Beast In Me� and oThirteen� by
Glenn Danzig are efforts to live on with
the burden of fate or internal conflict. ~The
majority of Recordings deals with CashTs
Christian beliefs in a quiet manner. ~The
acoustic guitar, the lone, simple instru-
ment, underscores the personal faith he
tries to live by without a shadow of
pretentious testimonial. CashTs oLet the
Whistle Blow� speaks of the honest
acceptance of actions, while his
oRedemption� and oLike A Soldier� and
~Tom WaitsT oDown By the ~TTrain� are
testaments of divine grace for fallen men.
oBury Me Not� and oWhy Me Lord� are
modern psalms of gratitude and reverence.
oDeliaTs Gone� is a fond remembrance of a
loved woman that the narrator killed when
she was ocold and mean / the kind of evil
make me wanna grab my submachine.�
oDeliaTs Gone� is sincere monologue
meant for a laugh. oIf your womanTs
devilish / You can let her run / Or you can
bring her down and do her / Like Delia got
done.� ~The levity Cash shows in oDelia,�
the rowdy oTennessee Stud,� and the
sardonic oThe Man Who CouldnTt Cry� is
JoHnny CaAsHes in on American Recordings
Poul Rustand
illustrated by
72 Literary and Arts
ere
"_ a
not so much needed as welcome, for the
allow Cash to smirk even if itTs a wear
smile. ~The wit of the latter also balances
the somber mood and lets Cash hint that
while, yes, these songs are of hard lives and
choices, life does go on and people can
only carry on the best they can.
American Recordings isnTt a comeback: Cash
never went away. But, it serves as a clarion
call to popular lamenters that, while
singing of pits of despair may sell to the
high school crowd and the languid. this
man in black is singing with getting on
after the fact. ThereTs nothing w rong with
crying in your beer, but after itTs done. you
gotta get up and walk home. Even if jrTs
on dark gravel roads.
Rebel Niner, -Five
eee wEs. 4
ta
Wa rE Ee
Interview witH LUKE Whisnant
by Jon Heyl
uke Whisnant is an Associate
Professor of English at ECU and
the author of Watching 1V with the Red
Chinese, a novel. He formerly served as
the editor of The Rebel.
Jon Heyl: / wanted to start by talking a little
bit about the book, Watching TV with the Red
Chinese. | noticed that you have a story of the
same title from about ten years ago. WhatTs
behind this book, or did it come out of the
proverbial oalluvial sludge�?
Luke Whisnant: It came out of the
sludge, in some ways. When I first went
off to graduate school, I was living in uni-
versity housing with two roommates, and
across the hall from us there were three
communist Chinese students who had
just come over to the U.S. to study. And,
as hospitable people do, we had those
folks over to our house one night for din-
ner, and served them an American din-
ner...you know, steak and potatoes and
green beans, I think it was, and they had
a lot of trouble using their forks and
knives. Turn about, they had us over to
their house about a month later, and they
had this enormous eight-course Chinese
feast. ~They must have worked two days
to get it ready for us.
So we're sitting there eating, and I
noticed that in the darkened living room
there was a black-and-white television
going with the sound turned down. And
[ said to myself: oWatching ~TV with the
Red Chinese?� ~This phrase just popped
into my head. I didnTt know what it was.
[ thought, is this a poem? Is this a story?
So I wrote it down in my notebook, And
about a year later, | was going through
that notebook looking for something to
write about, and I saw that phrase and
Literary and Arts
photo manipulation by David Rose & Jonathan Peedin
said: maybe this is a story title. And so |
wrote it as a story. I read it the night
before we went over it in the graduate
workshop. We went over it the next day,
and a visiting writer came through named
Hilma Werlitzer, and she said, othis is a
wonderful story, but you know so much
more about these people. I think this
should be a novel.� So she sort of plant-
ed the germ of the idea.
! should also say that nothing in the book
is in any way related to anything that
ever happened, as far as I know, to the
three Chinese neighbors that I had in St.
Louis. None of those guys fell in love
with an American woman, or died by a
gun shot wound, or even defected to the
United States. They were just the ker-
nel, the seed, the inspiration.
So they just gave you the characters?
~They didnTt even really give me the
characters, they just gave me the phrase,
oWatching ~ITV with the Red Chinese.� And
in some respects, I had to write the book to
find out what that phrase was all about.
Were the characters the same in the short StOTY
as they were in the novel?
Pretty much so, but of course they get
developed a great deal more in the novel. It
was basically the same three characters.
Did you work on the book continually, from
the time when the story came out? Or how
long did it take to do this?
Between the time that I wrote the story
and the time the novel came out. I guess
that was eleven or twelve years. But |
wasnTt working on it constantly during
photos by Amanda Baer
that time. I actually ended up writing it
in about three years. | started it, then set
it aside and started doing other things.
When I first started teaching here, we
already had a couple of fiction writers
and they didnTt need anyone else to
write fiction, so our chairperson encour-
aged me to begin publishing non-fiction.
And so I did, and it was sort of a side-
track. For four of five years, I didnTt
write any more fiction. I look back now,
and it wasnTt exactly wasted time, but it
was time I should have been putting into
fiction and not so much on writing fea-
ture stories on whitewater kayaking, peo-
ple who eat collard greens...which ITve
actually done.
Was this your first serious attempt at a full-
length novel?
No, during graduate school | had written
about a hundred and twenty pages of
another one and tossed that. And then in
the middle eighties, | was working on
another one that | got about the same
distance into, and then tossed it.
What's your writing process with a novel?
I have to write a lot of it before I really
know what itTs trying to say and what itTs
trying to be about. For example. the
book that I spent most of this past sum-
mer working on...1 had written about four
hundred pages on that, and it was scat-
tered all over the place. | have a friend
named Ann Hood, who says that you
have to do a personal draft. Her main
character will have blonde hair on one
page and red hair two pages later. And
she doesnTt even care, thereTs no conti-
nuity at all...itTs just whatever you have
to do that gets that first draft done. And
when sheTs finished with that personal
draft, she knows what the book is about
and what sorts of things she needs to
focus on. And without really recognizing
that thatTs what I was doing...that was
what I was doing for the past year on this
novel. And about the middle of July, I
understood a new way to structure the
book and what the book was really about.
And I threw out close to two hundred
pages, and ITve been going back to it
since then in a different way.
So thatTs my process. I really have to feel
my way in the dark with the right brain--
with the intuition--until I get enough on
the page for the left brain--the analytical
side--to come back in and say: all right,
hereTs what youTre trying to do, and
hereTs what you need to do to do that.
How hard is it to throw away two hun-
dred pages?
Not as hard as it used to be. (Laughs) |
Started out as a poet. And when you're a
poet, a lot of times the temptation is to
write line by line. Get one line right and
go on to the next one. A lot of poets
donTt write that way, but thatTs the way |
did. And when I started branching out
into prose, I had a lot of trouble writing
unless I got the first paragraph right. |
couldnTt go on to the next paragraph.
Sometimes the first sentence had to be
tight before I went to the next one. That
hurt an awful lot when I would get two
Weeks into a story and would find out
that none of this stuff that | wrote was
really related to what the story was about
at all, and I was going to have to throw it
away. So back then, I agonized over all
those pages, and then to have to throw
them out--that was it. ItTs very rough,
very loose, ITm not worried about it. ItTs
Casy, it comes easily. I sit down and write
two thousand words, and it usually takes
me between two and five hours. And if I
end up having to toss all that, it doesnTt
bother me. Because I know ITve got a lot
Or rewriting to do. ThatTs where the hard
work comes in.
Are there any things you would change about
the novel?
Oh, yeah. Sure. Dozens of things.
Do you want to go into those things?
No. ITd rather not. Well, maybe one
thing. (Pauses) You can always revise
things, and one aspect of the book that a
few reviewers commented on was that
they didnTt care for the character of
Suzanne. They thought she was evil, or
amoral, or that there was a typically sex-
ist presentation of her. And I think that
misses the point that Suzanne is seen in
this book fo/a//y through the eyes of Dex,
the narrator of the book. HeTs a character,
and heTs hung up on her, and heTs not a
very reliable narrator. But I think that // 1
were to redo it, ITd probably make Suzanne
a little more sympathetic of a character.
And lots of other things, but you've got
to put those things aside and go on. Go
on to the next book.
You wrote a screenplay; of the novel. WhatTs
the status of that?
~The book was optioned by a production
company thatTs now called oWatching
~TV Partners.� They have a two-year
option, and theyTre trying to get studio
money. They asked me to write the
screenplay, and I wrote it. And I learned
a lot while writing it. Whether it will ever
be made into a film is anybodyTs guess.
Out there in Hollywood there are thou-
sands of stories of people who get really
bent out of shape or disappointed 7
because a movie was never made out of
their book. Well, that happens to every-
body, seems to me. And thereTs usually dl
huge time lag, because the amounts of
money involved in making a film are
simply astronomical. For example, Anne
RiceTs [nterview with a Vampire was
optioned ten years ago and theyTre just
now getting around to doing a film. So who
knows if they'll ever make a film out of
this. But I learned a lot writing a screenplay,
and I was happy to have the option.
What are some of those things you learned by
writing the screenplay?
That thereTs a whole different technique
to writing screenplays than there is to
writing novels or stories. Shaping the
book to conform to the requirements of a
screenplay taught me a lot. Also, this
seems like a really obvious difference
between novels and screenplays, but itTs
not nearly as obvious until you have to sit
down and deal with it: in a screenplay,
every single thing that happens has to be
revealed through dialogue and action.
You canTt have any interior monologue,
you canTt know what a character is think-
ing or feeling. In some places that was an
advantage to telling a story, but in others
places I kept wishing that I could go in
and somehow let people know what Dex
is thinking or feeling.
But a lot of the book was written in such a
way that it would be easily adaptable to a
movie. For example, the opening scenes of each
Rebel Ninety-Five 75
RO NS TTT
section are written like the script of a film.
Yeah. ~That wasnTt intentional with
respect to trying to get a screenplay deal.
Because when they first called me and
told me they wanted to option this book
for a movie, I was the most surprised per-
son there could be. I donTt... I s#/// donTt
believe, in my heart of hearts, that this
book would make a decent movie.
So do you want to see a movie of it? Would it
make you a more fulfilled person if the book
came out on film?
No, it would simply increase my bank
account balance. (Laughs)
~T'remendously. The amounts of money
involved are obscene. But I donTt need a
movie made out of this book for any kind
of artiste fulfillment, and as a matter of
fact, | take quite the opposite view on
that. ITve often heard writers say things
about how producers oruined my book...�
thatTs very misguided, I think. Nothing
could touch your book. Your book is fin-
ished. ItTs there, itTs between the covers,
itTs on the page. And no matter how bad
a film they make of The Client, or Gone
With the Wind or whatever, itTs not going
to change whatTs on the page.
[ thought of 7he Client because I heard
John Grisham on the radio the other day
complaining about his first book, and
how he had had offers but was holding
onto the film rights, because he couldnTt
bear it if they had made a bad movie out
of his first book. I canTt understand that
attitude, because film is a collaborative
art. ItTs totally done by committee. ItTs a
series of decisions that no one person is
responsible for. If I have a heroine that
has red hair in my book, but they have
someone that has brown hair playing
her...you know. Do I feel that the book is
ruined? ~hey make compromises along
the way, any time theyTre filming any-
thing. They have to. ItTs the nature of
the beast. And theyTre collective deci-
sions. No one person controls how a film
comes out. So I see books and film as
Literary and Arts
totally separate media.
That could reflect a different viewpoint that
you have on your work as opposed to the
viewpoint someone like John Grisham might
have on his work. He may not see his work so
much as art, but as giving the public some-
thing that it wants. ItTs product. Would you
want to move into that arena that heTs in?
Even if you could keep your artistic ointegri-
ty,� would you want to get that big?
ITm not sure I could answer that question
because I donTt think of myself in those
terms. I donTt have very much interest in
collaborative projects. Now, I am doing
one right now with a friend of mine--she
and I are working on a screenplay--but
she came to me and asked me to help
her with it. But for myself, I just donTt
have any interest in creating product in
that sense. ~ThatTs not at all to say that
thereTs no place for that kind of writing,
or that thereTs no place for producing
entertainment. ~ThereTs p/enty of place for
that, ITm just not that interested in doing
that for myself. I would never look down
on somebody who does do that. They
have too much money.
ITm assuming the publication of the book was
the first time you were really subjected to pub-
lic criticism, both good and bad. And the book
starts with four pages of rave reviews, at least
in the paperback edition. What kind of effect
did those good reviews have on you, and what
kind of effect did some of the less flattering
ones have...if there were any.
Yeah, there were some. There were
about five or six, out of a total of about
forty reviews. Five or six really tore it to
pieces. When I look at those good ones
from the first four pages of the book, it is
kind of impressive. When I see them all
collected together, I think: Wow, pretty
good. But they came in at a trickle. |
remember being very happy with the
first three or four reviews, and then there
was a bad one, and I was kind of
depressed about for maybe half an hour.
Then I said to myself: you know, every-
thing she says about the book is true, ItTs
true. ItTs just that she didnTt like it. This
particular reviewer didnTt like these par-
ticular aspects of the book, so I can see
it. ItTs kind of like what we say in the
workshop: I am always right, and I am
always wrong. I am not going to argue
with one of the readerTs view, on the
book, even though hers is a very public
view. But...they trickled in a few at a
time, and my editor was very good about
not sending me any bad reviews unless
she had two or three good reviews to
send in the same package. And the good
ones were good enough to take the sting
out of the bad ones.
The only thing that made me mad was
one bad one in a major newspaper, the
Washington Post. \t was an omnibus
review, where she reviewed about six or
seven books, and devoted two paragraphs
to mine. And the reasons why she didnTt
like the book were of such a personal
nature--she didnTt like the era that it
talked about, that she didnTt want to go
back to the early eighties when Reagan
was first elected. And she said she didnTt
enjoy graduate-school, she didnTt want to
read about these people that were gradu-
ate school-age people. And she also said
that Suzanne slept with every male char-
acter in the book. And I thought: this
person didnTt read the book very careful-
ly. So I think itTs very irresponsible to
review something negatively if you have
not really read the book carefully. But
other than that, I enjoyed those reviews.
I was glad to see them.
Going back to when you started writing--you
had your first article published in 1976.
When did you first become interested in writ-
ing, and when did you notice you had a talent
Sor doing this?
I had a great high school English teacher,
and if you look in my first novel youTll
notice itTs dedicated to Margaret Gragg.
ThatTs my high school English teacher.
She was the one that encouraged my first
pitiful attempts at writing poetry. And
~e a .
" as ae
RR
they were bad. They were awfully bad.
But she would write encouraging notes
in the margins, and suggest that I read
certain other poets. And she really
helped put me on this road. And then
along the way I had three or four other
very influential teachers, people that
helped me see this was a possibility for
me, that I could write.
You got your undergraduate degree here at
ECU. Were some of those influences here?
Yeah. In fact, I had some terrific profes-
sors here. I donTt want to offend anyone
by leaving anyone out, but I can tell you
that Peter Makuck and Terry Davis were
my two writing teachers. PeterTs still
here, and everybody knows that PeterTs
an excellent poet. Terry Davis is teach-
ing in Minnesota now, I believe, and he
Was the author of Vision Quest, which was
later made into a film. He was my first
fiction writing teacher here, and he was
terrific. He had a great deal of energy. |
aspire in my classes to match the same
kind of energy that Terry had. And
among the academic classes, I had terrific
ones with Norman Rosenfeld, ~Ted Ellis,
David Sanders, and a couple others.
Was it more influences that drew you to
Washington University for your graduate work?
No, it was money. (Laughs) I had to go
Where I could find a fellowship, and
Washington University was able to come
up with one. Not only tuition, but also
they paid me a stipend. In other words,
they paid me to go to school there. So |
Was very happy to go out there.
But you did end up under some big names
Out there.
Stanley Elkin. William Gass. Howard
Nemeroff taught a poetry class that I
took. But I think thereTs a little too much
emphasis placed, in some quarters any-
way, on oI studied with�...fill in the
blank. Because certain people might be
&reat writers, but they can be abominable
teachers. And in fact, in graduate school,
I probably learned a great deal more
about what wor to do in a classroom than |
did about 4ow to teach.
Speaking of teaching. Is the joy of teaching
equal to the joy of writing?
I donTt equate them because theyTre
apples and oranges, I think. Writing is
solitary. ItTs very difficult in the sense
that everyday you have to confront othe
self.� ItTs a constant struggle to maintain
your discipline. Because if you donTt go
sit down at the desk and write, the only
person youTve let down is yourself.
Teaching, to me, is much more social.
ThereTs a great definition of teaching...
somebody said once that one of the great
joys of it was being locked in a room with
a bunch of people that are interested in
the same thing that youTre interested in,
and being able to talk with them about
it. ThatTs the same felling that I bring to
my writing classes. ItTs a pleasure and a
privilege to be able to talk with people
about writing, fiction, short stories. And
itTs also sort of the social highlight of my
week, at least this semester. ItTs fun.
So if you became as rich as, say John
Grisham, would you continue to teach?
Yeah, ITd like to continue to teach. I
might go to part-time, or something.
ThatTs not going to happen anyway, but |
enjoy teaching so much that I'd like to
continue to do it.
What authors have influenced you, or whom
do you read?
Oh, boy. If I start this list, ITm sure [ll
leave somebody off, and I'll feel sorry
about it later. But just off the top of my
head, some of the writers that have been
most influential to me and/or writers ITve
been reading lately... Joan Didion ts a
wonderful writer. | read P/ay it as it Lays,
her second novel, in the mid-seventies,
and sheTs been a huge influence on me
ever since. I really like Stephen
Millhauser. Some people call him a fabu-
list. HeTs terrific. Um...Vladimir
Nabokov, Stanley Elkin... Tm trying to
think. ITm generally reading things that
ITll be teaching for class, so I donTt get to
read quite as much as I would like. ITve
read a lot of John Irving. I like John
Irving. Is that enough? I'll try to think of
some more.
Do your influences change as you get older
and develop your own style? Do you lose
your heroes?
I think your tastes change, but you still
have a soft spot for the writers that vou
really cared for. When I was growing up |
read a lot of science fiction, and Robert
Heinlein was my favorite. And I still can
go back and read Heinlein without
becoming overly concerned with the
style or technique. ITm able to turn that
editor--that analytic side--off, and just
enjoy the pure pleasure of reading great
science fiction.
My tastes are actually very broad. and ]
tend to like anything thatTs done very well.
ITm not very negative. I donTt say, o( Dh, l
used to like this, but I hate it now�.
Oh, and Nicholson Baker. ITve been
reading a lot of Nicholson Baker latelv.
I'd add him to that list, too. HeTs a pretty
amazing writer. 3
Let's talk about your involvement with lhe
Rebel. What did you do for The Rebel. and
what did it do for you?
When I first came to ECU I met Irwin
Hester, who was chairman of the depart-
ment then, and he spent some time talk-
ing with me. At the time, I was planning
on being a drama major, but Irwin sat me
down and found out I had an interest in
English and that I had worked on my
high school literary magazine. And he
said, oOh, youTll probably be interested
in The Rebel.� So, when | first got here, |
realized this could be an outlet for my
Rebel Ninety-Five
77
ee ee
writing. | had a poem published there
the first year, and then someone asked
me to be poetry editor my sophomore
year. And my junior year and senior year
[ was editor-in-chief over there. It was
something that I had an interest in doing
and enjoyed doing.
What did it give me? A lot of experience,
obviously. I got experience dealing with
a budget. I learned some things about
dealing with writers and artists... espe-
cially the artists. (Laughs). We had some
controversies with the artists over the
years, some bruised feelings. It gave me
some organizational skills.
One other thing that it gave me...the last
year we were working on it, we had a
bigger group than usual. Maybe five or
six people. And we had a real sense of
camaraderie. All of the folks working on
it were writers in their own right, and
we spent a lot of time together outside
of the office. And I think that was valu-
able, because writers are usually fairly
isolated people.
You mentioned that you were poetry editor of
The Rebel. You've had multiple poems pub-
lished in a variety of reviews, and you've had
a chapbook--a collection of poems--published
as well. But you also have many non-fiction
articles, many short stories, and of course, the
novel. Where do the different forms fall, as far
as your ranking of them? Is poetry your first
love, but one thatTs limiting in some way?
No, I'd say that fiction is my first love. At
one point poetry was, but ITm much
more interested in fiction now. And ITm a
better fiction writer than I am a poet.
And ITm not disappointed to say that. |
still love poetry, but ITve gotten to where
I write only a couple of poems a year. I
spend my time much more on fiction.
How do I rank these different forms? I
donTt really rank them. If I have free
writing time, then I work on the novel or
a short story that I might be trying to get
together. If ITm taking a break from the
novel, | have a couple of short stories that
Literary and Arts
I'd like to write. But I really feel that my
priority is getting this novel done.
The thing about writing poetry is, for the
most part, you can get a draft done in
one sitting. hat doesnTt mean that itTs
finished, of course. You want to go back
and work on it some more. But I have
the luxury now of writing poetry when-
ever it strikes me to do it.
Would you encourage a beginning poet to stay
on that track, or would you be concerned
with, at least what I see as, the limited outlets
for poetry?
No, I wouldnTt be concerned with that. |
would encourage people who are not
obsessed with writing not to go into writ-
ing of any kind. ~ThatTs what I would
encourage. And so you ask me if I would
encourage a poets to broaden his or her
forms of writing? Nope. You do this
because you're obsessed with it, and if
you're a poet, you probably know by now
that youTre going to face a life of limited
fame. ~That there arenTt that many
venues for poetry. Actually, you know,
ITm saying that, but there really are.
There are plenty of places to publish
poetry, but thereTs not the kind of osuc-
cess� there that people like John
Grisham, or Anne Rice, or Stephen King
have. The writers that are most osuccess-
ful�--and I put that word in quotes--the
ones that are most osuccessful� in this
culture are the ones that have the most
visibility and the most money. And there
are very few poets that are up there. But
no, | wouldnTt discourage any poet from
going into poetry.
But | would discourage anyone from
going into any kind of writing in order to
become famous, or to make a lot of
money. [he thing to do if you want to
become famous and make a lot of money
is to be in music videos. ItTs ludicrous to
think that this kind of career is going to
make you a household name.
So what are some of your other tips for
young writers?
I thought about this the other day, and
ITm trying to remember. There were two
things. One, of course, is to take yourself
seriously. Once you take yourself serious-
ly, everything else falls into place. If you
see yourself as a writer, and get serious
about it, youTre going to learn what you
need to know. YouTre going to look up
how to use a semicolon, youTre going to
work on your spelling problems, youTre
going to take yourself seriously. And it all
falls into place.
[ canTt remember what the other thing is.
You know, thereTs a great line in this new
John Hiatt song... he says, othereTs only
two things in life, but I forget what they
are.� Something like that.
What is your philosophy on teaching? YouTve
been consistently rated very highly as a
teacher, both by students and by the depart-
ment. Do you have something like a motto that
you live by, as far as teaching is concerned?
The techniques are going to vary from
class to class. ~The only thing thatTs con-
sistent of any kind of quality teaching is
respect for the students. Someone was
asking me the other day about her teach-
ing. She said, oITm doing this and that,
am I doing this wrong?� And no, sheTs
not doing it wrong. ~The only thing thatTs
wrong is to disrespect your students.
ThatTs square one. Everything else that |
do varies depending on the group and
the class.
In fiction writing workshop classes, my
style has evolved over the years into a
more global approach. Instead of spend-
ing time nit-picking about lines, sen-
tences, words, and phrases, ITm now try-
ing to see the big picture: Where is the
story here? What is this story really
about? What are the techniques you can
use, in the big sense, to make it more
effective? So along with that, ITm also
teaching things like shape and form.
Spending a lot of time reading other writ-
ersT works. It used to be that the
approach I took was just to give a
response. HereTs a studentTs story, and
hereTs my response. Then the student
could use the response to rewrite if he or
she wanted to. But I think now that what
ITm doing is much more context-oriented.
I can remember when I had Terry Davis
for class. We would go over every piece
that somebody turned in, line by line,
sentence by sentence. And when I got
Out to graduate school, Stanley Elkin, my
teacher there, never once wrote a single
comment on any story. He would simple
fold the page down until the edge of the
Page was touching the part of the story
that he wanted to talk about. And he
would flip through that story, and he
would get to a folded page, and he would
Start reading out loud until he remem-
bered what it was he wanted to say about
that page. And then he would say it, typi-
cally in a devastating manner. But he was
always right. You know, he didnTt coddle
his students at all, but he was right in
What he would say. And I wrote back to
Terry, and said, man, they donTt go over
Stories at all like we used to. They take
the big picture. Terry really looks at
What the storyTs about, and where the cri-
Sis is, and how the different parts related
to each other, and I think ITve moved
more toward that.
ls there anything you want to say, anything you
want to get out to the readers of The Rebel?
Yeah. (Laughs) I think this is a waste of
Student fees to interview me in The
Rebel magazine.
Come on. Give us a pearl of wisdom.
A pearl of wisdom. Okay. If youTre writ-
ing a story, and you canTt figure out how
to end it, just have everybody get run
Over by a truck. And by the way, donTt
Wear brown shoes with a blue suit.
Rebel Ninety-Five
79
ae
ee eee)
~
oa . s _
ee tT ee i se al
Caras
bad tel
~ hee
LS
ee
a
se
ciepeneeiin LILO td
T
com
p wore
aoe
Both sen.
illustrated by Robert Grunder
Love spelled backwards is evil
but
Bob spelled backwards is still |
Bob |
and |
| once loved
Bob
(or evil) is like love is
fo my own god
(spelled backwards is dog)
while
cats are somewhere between evil
and the idea of god is
Bob
or a tornado
like love is a cycle,
vicious, like an evil
tornado and someday,
between here and god,
| will be flung from it,
out by its own velocity,
out
in spite of my own
decreasing radial space,
out
into a tree
or onto my cat
away from any ultimate truths
like |
evil
love
god and
Bob
Rebel Ninety-Five 8/
hl Tea. ORS S's. ET SES a
_
em -"" |.
vT NAY Ci'cumstance
AS WR IO CN
erry stepped up to the counter of the
newsstand and conspicuously
plopped down a copy of the Wa// Street
Journal. He liked going into these small-
town news and tobacco shops in his suit
and tie, walking among the loitering
school kids and the blue-collar locals
thumbing lackadaisically through gun
magazines and racing sheets. They
would always glance up from their read-
ings and steal a look at him, at this man
impeccably dressed in silk and broad-
cloth who glided confidently through the
shop with financial journals under his
arm. [he clerk behind the counter nod-
ded at him in recognition, but respectful-
ly laid off giving him a smile.
é a) H
oHi, David.� Jerry always addressed the
clerk by name.
oHowTs it goinT,� the young man
answered softly. It didnTt come out
sounding like a question, but Jerry
answered it as if it were.
oOh, canTt complain. Just working hard,
trying to make a buck.� He chuckled a
satisfied laugh and winked at the clerk.
He could have just easily said he was just
trying to make nine hundred dollars,
because that was what he was paying
himself that day. It was what he paid
himself every day. Although barely thir-
ty-eight years old, he already owned a
chain of jewelry stores that were scat-
tered throughout all these small towns
like the one he was currently in. The
stores sold mostly low-grade stuff, in fit-
ting with the spending power of his
small-town clientele, but generated a
tremendous profit nevertheless.
Literary and Arts
oAnything else for you?� the clerk asked.
His fingers punched absently at the keys
of an ancient cash register.
oNo, that'll do it. Oh, wait...let me get
one of those cigars behind you.� He
leaned over the counter and scanned the
small selection, finally seeing what he
wanted and pointing to it. oOne of those
three-dollar ones. In the white tube.� He
grinned and thanked the clerk as he
handed it to him. How many of these
people watching him could afford to pay
three dollars for one cigar? oI know |
shouldnTt smoke,� he chuckled, obut itTs
a long ride back to Fairfield.�
The clerk nodded. oLong enough,� he
said tonelessly. oPlenty boring too.
Nothing but corn between here and
there.� It was true. At the right time of
day, you could drive the entire thirty-one
miles from Morrisville to Fairfield with-
out ever seeing a single person or meet-
ing another car. Just rows and rows of
corn, towering up on either side of you,
like a roofless tunnel channeling you in
boredom from one city to the other. Out
of the corner of his eye, Jerry noticed the
figure of a man approaching him slowly.
oHey man,� the stranger said. His tone was
polite, but not tentative. He stopped about
five feet from Jerry and leaned against the
glass display counter. oI couldnTt help hear-
ing you say youTre goinT to Fairfield.�
JerryTs expression hardened and he eyed
the man uncomfortably. The stranger
scratched his beard lightly and looked
down, then looked back up with a faint
smile. oWell, listen, I just got into town and
ITm trying to get to Fairfield. | was wonder-
ing if maybe...�
illustrated by Fabrizio Bianchi
Excuses had started running through
JerryTs head as soon as the man had men-
tioned Fairfield. Who was this guy, and
why was he hanging around in a news-
stand trying to score a ride out of town?
News footage of escaped convicts and psy-
chotic hitchhikers flashed against the
screen in his mind, one after the other and
all of them horrific. His eyes drifted
toward the manTs waist, suspiciously look-
ing for the outline of a gun beneath the
denim jacket.
Jerry guessed the man to be about his own
age. The guy looked a little rough, but his
demeanor was smooth and he looked
clean. His face actually reminded Jerry of
some football playerTs whose name he
couldnTt remember, some quarterback
who was always on commercials for shav-
ing cream and underwear. The stranger
grinned at him patiently, waiting for an
answer. His head seemed to be nodding
up and down almost imperceptibly.
Jerry cleared his throat awkwardly. oWell,
I donTt know, partner. You see...� He was
gesturing with one hand, as if he were
embarking on an explanation, but he
couldnTt think of anything to say.
~The stranger tilted his head back, allowing
his thick hair to spill over the upturned
collar of his jacket. Hints of gray were
starting to invade the hair at the temples,
and were making inroads on his close-
cropped beard as well. A duffel bag hung
from his shoulder by a strap, and he raised
one arm to shift its position. Then he took
a step forward and spread a confident and
personal smile across his lips, locking his
eyes on JerryTs.
=
Hey man, I can give you twenty bucks.�
He held the smile.
Jesus, Jerry thought. This guy ought to
be a salesman. Cool as ice, and just as
Slick. He stood there for a moment in the
heat of the strangerTs smile, then cau-
tiously glanced at the clerk, silently ask-
oaE Ey Ny
id
>
ing if he knew the man. ~The clerk raised
his eyebrows and shrugged. ~The stranger
was still smiling. He hadnTt left Jerry a
way out, or at least not one that he could
take without looking like a heartless bas-
tard. Jerry hesitated a moment, then
rolled out a full and hearty laugh.
Well, I certainly donTt need vour twenty
dollars,� he announced. ~
~But I guess it
wouldnTt hurt to give you a lift You
donTt have a gun or anything, do you?�
He laughed as he said it to let the man
know he wasnTt entirely serious. The
stranger smiled at him warmly. then
slowly lifted his arms above his head
Rebel Ninety -Five
&.
oHey man, you can search me if you want.�
He stood there like that, his arms raised
ridiculously above his head, and waited for
a response from Jerry. The grin never left.
Jerry cleared his throat uncomfortably
again, suddenly noticing that all the cus-
tomers in the newsstand were watching
him. oITm sure that wonTt be necessary,� he
said. ~This stranger had a style about him all
right. He knew how to get what he wanted.
Jerry wondered if he could talk him into
being a salesman at one of the jewelry
stores"provided, of course, the man would
agree to a shave and haircut. All he would
have to do was draw this stranger in, show
him the dream, and then sell him on it.
Maybe this drive to Fairfield tonight would
turn out to be productive trip. Maybe, for
once, it wouldnTt be boring.
Jerry picked up his newspaper and gestured
toward the door with it. oAfter you,� he
smiled. ~The stranger spun smoothly on his
heels and began ambling casually toward
the exit. Jerry noticed that the man even
walked like a football player. Or a biker, or
a cowboy. ~That confident swagger of movie
heroes. He buttoned his jacket and shot a
parting glance at the clerk, suddenly realiz-
ing it was the first time heTd ever seen the
young man smiling at him.
No wonder he doesnTt smile much, Jerry
thought. ~ThatTs one hell of an ugly grin.
oNice car,� the stranger observed, a little
less enthusiastically than Jerry had hoped.
Jerry twisted the big key with his wrist,
bringing the engine of the white Mercedes
to life with a hushed growl, then listening
as it became almost completely silent at
idle. ohanks. You like it?�
The stranger looked at him with a quizzi-
cal smile, one that was almost scolding.
Of course he liked it. He had just said so.
Jerry had just wanted to hear a little
more. ~he Mercedes hadnTt come cheap,
and he liked to get his moneyTs worth of
Literary and Arts
admiration out of it. He languished for a
moment in this awkward trap of silence
heTd sprung on himself, then started
chattering his way out of it.
oMan, I worked the deal of my life to get
this car.� He was surprised to hear himself
say oman.� He hadnTt begun a sentence
that way since college. The stranger was
looking at him with an ambiguous grin,
half patient and half amused. oYeah, the
dealer wanted seventy-two thousand dol-
lars for this baby. Seventy-two grand! Can
you believe it? Seventy-two grand for a
car? Well, I'd made up my mind before |
went in that I wasnTt going to pay a dime
over sixty-six. | was gonnaT have to bring
that guy down six grand!�
He waited for the stranger to eagerly
inquire as to how he had accomplished
this, but all he got was more silence and
the mysterious smile. The strangerTs
ingratitude disappointed him momentari-
ly, but he quickly recovered.
oSo anyway, no salesmanTs going to
knock six whole grand off the price of a
car, right? It'd be suicide. Absolute zero
commission.� Again his tone surprised
him. He wrote it off as trying to commu-
nicate on a level the stranger would
understand. After all, he thought, when
in Rome... oSo this is what I tell the guy.
[ tell him, hey sport, if you work me the
right deal on this baby I'll be back next
month with the wife. I tell him sheTs
gonnaT want one too as soon as she sees
me driving around in this one. Now his
eyes start to light up a little, but heTs still
not coming down the whole six grand.
The wife story, that gets me maybe two
or three grand...tops.�
He glanced back at the stranger. Silence
and the grin. All these new and strange
smiles today. ~They stopped at the last
traffic light in town, waiting for it to turn
green and grant them entrance into the
tunnel of corn. ~The stranger shifted
slightly in his seat.
oSo ITve gottaT work a little more out of
this guy, right? This is what I do. Get
this.� Jerry giggled slightly as the light
turned green, and he gunned the engine
to let the stranger know just how much
power the flagship Mercedes actually
had. oI tell the guy, listen, ITm working
on a deal with the BMW place to get
company cars for all my managers. And
he buys this line! Swallows it whole!
Now, I say to him, if you work me a deal
on this car, then maybe we can cut that
old BMW dealer right out of the picture.
I tell him that maybe I'll put all my man-
agers in Mercedes instead, you know.
Really send ~em uptown. Then I wink at
him. ~That does it. Money signs start
rolling around in his eyes and heTs lick-
ing his lips. He asks me how many stores
I got, how many managers.�
Jerry paused and smiled deliciously, both at
the glory of his tale and the fact that he
could now work in how many JerryTs Fine
Jewelry stores comprised his empire. oI tell
him ITve got twelve. Twelve stores, twelve
managers, twelve Mercedes. ~This buries
him. He takes me into the showroom, dis-
appears for a minute, then comes out wav-
ing a contract for not sixty-six, but sixty two
grand. I took him down ten whole grand!
~That suckerTs probably still waiting for me
to come back. What an idiot. The guy actu-
ally thought I was going to buy a dozen
Mercedes! What a sap.� Jerry allowed him-
self a long congratulatory laugh.
oSo what does your wife drive?� The
sound of the strangerTs voice after the
long silence momentarily startled him.
oWhat?�
oYour wife,� the stranger said. oWhatTs
she drive?�
oOh. She, ah...she drives a Chevy.� The
stranger nodded. ~The two-lane highway
had evolved into the roofless tunnel now, and
the healthy stalks of corn rose high above it on
both sides and obscured it in shadows.
ee _
~They rode in silence for a few minutes. The
Stranger had reclined slightly in his seat and
crossed his legs. A big cowboy boot, emerging
from the frayed bottom of a pair of jeans, was
perched just inches from the carTs polished wal-
nut console. Jerry looked down at it nervously.
So,� he said, forcing a bold cheery note into
his voice. oWhatTs your name?�
lhe stranger turned his head slowly. He had
been looking out the window, apparently lost
in the mass of thick stalks that walled the tun-
nel. oMy name?�
Yeah. Your name.� Jerry chuckled uneasily.
What kind of response was that?
lhe stranger clasped his hands behind his
head. oHey man, what's your name?� He didnTt
Say it belligerently. He sounded quite relaxed.
Jerry frowned in puzzlement. oWell...my
nameTs Jerry.�
oNo kidding? Mine too.� There was some-
thing in the strangerTs tone, something maybe
Just the slightest touch sarcastic or taunting,
but it was buried so deeply Jerry couldnTt
quite make out what it was. Or whether it was
there at all. He stole a suspicious glance at the
man, wondering whether or not he was being
mocked. ~The stranger smiled back at him.
There was something in that smile, too.
Something underneath it.
But nobc xdyTs called me Jerry for years,� the
Stranger continued.
What do they call you now?�
lhe stranger snickered. oPeople call me a lot of
things, man. Asshole, Sonofabitch, Beast. One
girl called me a wretch. SheTd been to college.�
He yawned at this recounting of his names,
apparently bored by it. oSome people even call
me Santa Claus. But you can call me Troop.�
Troop? Why Troop?�
Because thatTs my last name,� he said.
"" es SS ee
Jerry laughed to himself. If that laundry
list of names was accurate, he and this
strange man beside him might have more
in common than he had thought. oYou
know, Troop, ITve been called a lot of
those names myself. This one girl, she
said I was the lowest slime to ever crawl
the earth. She was mad because ITd just
fired her. I told her she couldnTt cut it.
You know how girls get when you tell
~em stuff like that.� He looked over at
the stranger conspiratorially, as if they
were old friends swapping war stories of
women and good times.
The stranger was eyeing him with a
slightly inquisitive look. oWere you
being honest?�
oUh...well, I guess so.� What a strange ques-
tion, he thought. Puzzling. oI guess I didnTt
really think of it as honesty at the ume. Just the
truth.� The stranger was stroking his beard and
he looked amused, which encouraged Jerry to
continue. oYou know, ~Troop, thereTs some-
thing I always say. Words to live by.� He
paused to convey the importance of the wis-
dom he was about to impart to the stranger.
oYeah? WhatTs that?�
o[_ifeTs not fair, the truth hurts, and business is
nasty. ~The problem is, people just canTt seem
to grasp that.� He shook his head dejectedly,
as if disappointed in the ignorant human race.
The stranger smiled at him and nodded. oHey
man, the truthTs rough. Sometimes people just
donTt wannaT hear what youTve got to say.� He
kept smiling and nodding, a lot more than was
appropriate. It made Jerry nervous, so he
changed the subject.
oWhatTs bringing you to Fairfield,
Troop? You got friends there?�
The stranger shook his head. oNope. No
friends in Fairfield.�
oFamily?�
oNo, man. No family either.�
Jerry blanched. oThen may I ask why
you re going?� 7
oWell, sure you can, Jerry! Of course vou can!
Ask me anything you want.� He suddenly
seemed very animated and personable, |
though Jerry couldnTt figure out if it was sin-
cere. Silence followed.
Okay, then...why are you going to Fairfield?�
Because you're going, man. And ITm riding
with you.� He said it softly with a strange
inflection, as if it should have been obvious
Jerry glanced at him in confusion and waited
for him to clarify himself, but no further expla-
nation was coming. He reached into his shirt
pocket and took out the cigar he had bought
at the newsstand, the three-dollar one that had
come in a white metal tube. Maybe it was
time to get down to business. Maybe it was
time to unveil the magic and lay it out for the
stranger in all its glory. Maybe it was time to
reel him in.
oMind if I smoke?� he asked. sliding the
cigar between his teeth and pushing in the
lighter on the console. It was a trick he used
often. Start doing something while you're
asking permission to do it, and the other guy
Can never Say no.
Ihe stranger glanced at the cigar lighter and
smiled. oKnock yourself out. I like it smoky.�
Jerry inhaled on the cigar, then cracked his
window and blew out the smoke luxuri-
ously in a long audible sigh of satisfac-
tion. oWell, Mr. ~Troop... are you going to
be looking for work in Fairfield?� He
noticed his businessman tone had
returned, aided by the expensive cigar
and the subject to be discussed. He had
to ease into this cautiously, so as not to
scare the man off.
Am I going to be looking for work in
Fairfield?� the stranger repeated dreamily to
Rebel] Ninety-Five
S85
himself, as if he had
to think about it. He seemed lost in
thought for a few seconds, making Jerry
wonder whether he was going to answer
the question or not. Finally he emerged
from his thought. oNo, Jerry. I'm not
gonnaT be looking for work in Fairfield.�
oI see,� Jerry said seriously, tapping the ash
of his cigar thoughtfully into the ashtray.
oWhat kind of work are you in, anyway?�
~The stranger rested his elbow on the top of the
door and ran his hand through his thick hair.
He looked amused. oITm not a salesman.�
Jerry stopped in the middle of his second
drag on the cigar. He hadnTt expected
that, and he scolded himself for being
caught off guard. But this was really still a
standard situation. A lot of people deny
that they can sell, and you just have to
convince them that they can. He recov-
ered and flashed the stranger a big grin.
~This was turning into a tidy little game of
wit, one that he was determined to win.
Literary and Arts
oYou like
money, donTt you, ~Troop?�
The stranger grinned wearily, as if play-
ing out a tired old script, but said noth-
ing. Jerry pressed on.
oAll nght, ~Troop, you donTt have to say it.
Hell, I know some people donTt like saying it.
But the truth is that everyone likes money.�
oThe truth?� He cocked his head and looked
at Jerry. His eyes seemed to be twinkling.
oYes, of course. Everyone likes money. ITm
not ashamed to admit it. | mean, look at this
car weTre in. Did you see how those people at
the newsstand were looking at this car?�
oYeah, I did.� He seemed to be restraining a
laugh, and his voice definitely didnTt have the
proper grain of respect. Jerry frowned and con-
tinued. ~lhis guy would be tough to crack, but
he liked a challenge.
oWell, ITm sure I donTt have to tell you that
money doesnTt come easily, ~Troop.� He
always used a personTs name liberally when he
was trying to make a sale. olo get money,
you've got to be both smart and savvy. YouTve
got to have guts and skill. And on top of that
you've got to work your butt off. But when
you get it, itTs all worth it.� He let his eyes
wander over the broad expanses of walnut
and leather that surrounded him, hoping the
stranger's eyes would follow his and get the
point. But the strangerTs eyes were lost in
the corn, standing six feet high on both
sides and casting ragged shadows against
the fat white flanks of the Mercedes.
Jerry sighed. oListen, ~lroop, let me
tell you a little story. When I graduat-
ed from college, there werenTt a lot
of jobs around. ~Those were hard
times. But | had a business degree
and a dream. I took a job working
as a salesman in old Mr. FosterTs
jewelry store right there in
Fairfield. Not twenty miles from
where we are right now. But do you
think I was content to be a salesman all
my life? No way. Sure, | was making a
good little commission, because | could
sell. | could move the goods. I could
have sat back and made a nice little com-
fortable salary for the rest of my life. But
| had other things in mind.�
oHang on, man,� the stranger interrupted.
oITm trying to keep a running checklist
here and I wannaT make sure ITm caught
up. LetTs see... there was guts, savvy,
and...hey, do you have to be funny to get
rich?� His eyes twinkled mischievously.
Jerry frowned. oNo, I donTt suppose so.�
~The stranger blew out an exaggerated
sigh. oWhoa, thatTs a relief.�
Jerry scowled at him suspiciously and wait-
ed for the stranger to tell him to continue,
but the stranger said nothing. He had that
grin plastered on his face and was staring
out at the corn again.
oWell, anyway...where was I? Oh yeah, Mr.
FosterTs store. So there | am, twenty-three
years old and making twice what any other
salesman in the place is making. But do I go
»
"
ee
a, , Oo - an
out and buy sports cars and clothes? No way. |
know thereTs plenty of time for that later. You
know what ITm doing with all that money? ITm
Squirreling it away. You know what thatTs
called? ItTs called building capital.�
Ihe stranger shifted in his seat again. Maybe
the hook had sunk in. oSo what do you do
with all this money once you've got it?�
Ah, he had snagged him. HeTd lit the fire. Jerry
allowed himself to gloat privately for a
moment. oWell, thereTs a lot of stuff you can
do with it,� he began. His tone had become
like that of a sage, or of a father giving advice.
Personally, I like to spend it.
oOn what?�
Jerry leaned over and rested his elbow on
the console again, waving his other hand
around the interior of the car. oOn this. On
the best cars and the best cigars.� He gave
this phrase a pompous flavor, like it was a
line from a commercial.
oCars and cigars,� the stranger repeated
slowly, turning over the phrase in reflection.
He reclined in his seat again and threw one
foot roughly up on the dash. Jerry glanced in
irritation at the scuffed cowboy boot, and at
its inverted reflection in the windshield, but
said nothing. He could let it go if he could
hook this guy.
oBut itTs more than just cars and cigars, as you
put it.� He hung his selling smile back on and
showed it to the stranger. oItTs in all the finest
things. Look at this tie ITm wearing. I donTt
have to tell you itTs silk. And ITve got twenty
more at home, costing forty bucks a pop. And
the funny thing is, they'll all be out of style
next year. ITll have to buy twenty more.�
oThe funny thing,� the stranger repeated. He
had his hands hooked behind his head and
Was staring over his boot down the highway
beyond. oThereTs lots of funny things in this
world.� He cocked his head toward Jerry.
DonTt you think so, Jer?�
ca ie MMR 5 " | ans
Jer. Jerry bristled at the sound of it. He hated
to hear his name abbreviated. And that under-
lying mocking tone was returning to the
strangerTs voice, too. HeTd have to work fast
not to lose this one.
oThink about what we need in life, oTroop,�
he began earnestly, forcing the smile of confi-
dence back onto his face. oWe, as people,
need certain things. Right? We need food and
clothing and shelter, all the basics. So why not
have the best of all those basics? Why not
have the finest clothing? ITm wearing eight
hundred bucks worth today. I do it everyday.
And if you've got to eat, why not eat steak and
lobster instead of hamburger? And
housing,..we could survive in shacks, but give
me one good reason why I shouldnTt have
built my three-story house on Lake Fairfield.
You know what ITve got there? ITve got a
three-car garage, two boats, a swimming pool,
a hot tub, a sauna, central vacuum, tennis
courts...man, ITve got it all!�
oHowTd you ~get it allT, man? How'd you do it?�
Jerry was caught up in the heat of it, int yxiCat-
ed by the verbal inventory of his possessions.
oT got it all because ITve got what it takes.
Some people are naturals at it. Some have it,
some donTt. YouTre either born with the gift or
you're not. Of course, even if you're born with
it, you've got to know how to play it. ~To mold
it. I'o make it grow. ItTs a magical power, one
only the few are blessed with. And when
you're blessed with it, people follow you.
They flock to you, all of them wanting to grab
a little piece of that magic when it falls from
you, all of them hoping to absorb and...�
Jerry was gesturing wildly, pounding his fist
against the console. He had understood the
magic years ago, but for obvious reasons had
kept it as his secret. Now it had come rushing
out in a heated attempt to convert this
stranger, to motivate him, to draw him into the
magic somehow. He was lost in the glory of it
all, flying way up high somewhere, way up
high until the sudden sensation of a cold gun
barrel against his cheek brought him crashing
back down.
He cursed under his breath and whipped
the car back into the right lane. He had
swerved in a reflexive jerk when he first
felt the gun, but now he was under control
again. He exhaled slowly. HeTd been in sit-
uations like this before.
oWhat do you want?� His voice suddenly
seemed so low and quiet after his emx tional
outburst, and he pushed it out through
clinched teeth. ~The stranger pulled the gun
away from his cheek and leaned back in his
seat, but he kept pointing it at him. He was
still wearing the grin and was quite calm,
given the situation. He looked, in fact, decid-
edly apathetic about the whole affair,
oI want you to shut the hell up,� he chuckled.
oPlug that spout. And then I want you to pull
over and stop the car.� He motioned casually
toward the dirt shoulder of the road with the
barrel of the gun.
~The thoughts were racing through JerryTs
head. ~There was nobody in sight. He checked
the rearview mirror and saw the road stretch-
ing out long and empty behind him. A mental
check of his wallet had it holding maybe a
hundred and fifty, two hundred bucks. He
hoped the stranger would just take the cash
and not mess with his credit cards. What a has-
sle that would be. Or what if the stranger was
going to take the car? Or kill him? He set his
jaw and wrapped both hands around the steer-
ing wheel as the Mercedes came to a stop.
~The stranger deliberately lowered his passen-
ger window, then switched off the engine and
pulled the keys out of the ignition.
oSo,� Jerry said, staring straight ahead and trv-
ing to sound like he was still in control. oWhat
now?� A sign on the side of road said Fairfield
lay thirteen miles away.
Well, this is my stop, partner.� The stranger
spoke slowly and casually, as if there were
nothing more natural then stopping on the
shoulder ofa desolate rural highway. He
scratched absently at his temple with the barrel
of the pistol, looking out at the endless rows of
com in the distance. oDamn, you talk a lot,
Rebel Ninety-Five 987
SS
Jerry. You were killing me with that shit.�
oKilling you?� Jerry stammered indignantly.
o] was just trying to make conversation!�
The stranger laughed. oThatTs what you
wannaT call it, huh? Conversation? Okay, then.
Your conversation was killing me.� He chuck-
led again. oConversation. ~ThatTs funny.�
Jerry stole a glance at the gun, cradled
loosely in the hand of the stranger. It was a
nickel-plated forty-five. Jerry had one just
like it at home, except his was black. He
had been a regular at the gun club until he
had started building the Morrisville store
and time had gotten too tight. He liked to
shoot. Liked to compete. ~The stranger was
still shining the smile on him, but now it
seemed devoid of any warmth. It had
degenerated to a mere smirk.
oThis is where I leave you, Jerry.�
oLeave me?�
oYeah, man. ITm gettinT off this train. But first
[ gottaT give you something. Matter of fact, |
got several things to give you. Hell, ITm a regu-
lar old Santa Claus today, Jer.� He leaned for-
ward and shrugged.
oWhat do you have to give me?� Jerry asked
flatly. Anger was heating up the back of his
neck as he glowered at the man holding him
hostage in his own Mercedes.
oWell, the first thing I gottaT give you is a
piece of information: I canTt give you the
twenty bucks I promised you. I lied, man. |
donTt have twenty bucks.� His eyes twinkled
and he casually scratched at his head with the
gun again. oThatTs funny, isnTt it?� His chest
heaved like he was laughing, but no sound
came out. He looked away.
oI donTt need the twenty dollars,� Jerry told
him, trying to quell the irritation in his voice.
oItTs not a problem.� He couldnTt stand having
a situation controlled by someone else.
Literary and Arts
oOkay, man. WeTll write off the twenty bucks.
The next thing I gottaT give you is a little
advice. About money.�
Jerry slowly turned his head toward the
stranger and scoffed. oYou've going to give me
advice about money?�
oYeah. ThatTs funny too, isnTt it?� He grinned,
and his eyes drifted off into the corn. ~The sun
was setting, and the orange light was getting
tangled in the tassels and making them glow.
oThing is, a lot of things are funny. You're a
mighty funny guy yourself, Jerry. But you
probably donTt see it that way.�
oITm funny?� Jerry said skeptically. oJust how
am I funny?�
oT told you that you didnTt see it that way,
man.� He yawned and stretched, then pointed
the gun playfully at Jerry for emphasis. oYou're
funny in what you say. Everything you told me
today was funny. It was hilarious, man. A regu-
lar down-home riot.�
oThen why did you put a gun to my head and
tell me to shut up?�
oBecause, man, you kept telling the same joke
over and over again until you drove it into the
ground. ~The same damn joke, Jerry. ~The first
time you tell a joke, itTs funny. But then
nobody wants to hear it again. Hell, come to
think of it, some people donTt even want to
hear it the first time. But you just keep telling it,
Jerry. Over and over again. ITd think you'd be
about sick of it by now. I mean, itTs a funny joke
and all, but Jesus!...�
Jerry stared off down the empty highway, burn-
ing inwardly with rage but trying not to let it
show. It was that odd time of day when the
road in front of you is bnght orange in the sun-
set, while the road rolling out in your rearview
mirror is ash gray. ItTs like it changes color nght
beneath you. He was suddenly aware of the
strangerTs voice again.
* .but getting back to the advice about money,
Jer. Listen up, and remember this. Money
looks nice, and smells nice, and feels nice...but
it tastes like shit.� He paused for effect, causing
Jerry to flash him a confused grimace. oAnd
money, like so many other things in life, is most
attractive when you donTt have it.� He looked
as if a thought had just occurred to him and
laughed. oSee, Jerry? ~ThatTs something else
thatTs funny. ~ThereTs funny stuff all around us.
WhatTs funny about that advice is that it should
have been you giving it to me, not the other
way around.�
Jerry scowled at him in silence. ~The stranger
shrugged, then opened his door and crawled
out of the car. Once outside, he leaned down
and looked in, resting his elbows on the sill of
the open window. He dropped the car keys
onto the floorboard.
oWhat's that?� Jerry muttered. He was stran-
gling the steering wheel with his hands, seeing
if he could squeeze straight through the leather
and taste the steel core beneath.
oITve got to give you my gun, man.� He turned
and squinted into the sun, which stretched his
grin into an ironic smile. oITve kindaT gottaT get
rid of it, if you Know what I mean. ItTs a little bit
warm. WouldnTt do for me to be found with it.�
He reached in and laid it on the passenger seat.
Jerry turned and stared at him suspiciously,
then his eyes fell to the forty-five. ~The nickel
took on an alluring orange glow in the sunset
warmth, but Jerry resisted reaching for it.
oGo ahead, man,� the stranger told him. oItTs
yours. Call it payment for the nde, if you want.�
He waited a moment for Jerry to pick it up, but
Jerry didnTt move. oHey, itTs up to you, man.
ITm gonnaT start walking, ItTs a good ume for me
to disappear for a while. You can do what you
want with the gun. You can even shoot me,
Jerry. Or you can shoot yourself. If I were you,
I'd personally be more interested in the second
choice. But itTs up to you, man. Up to you.�
The stranger clapped his hands together once,
sharply, then stood up and began walking away
from the car. Away from the massive white
Mercedes, away from the blacktop highway,
and toward the great mass of corn stalks that
would hide any man. JerryTs hands trembled.
The gun was glowing warmly, invitingly, a gift
to be used. He felt as if there were a raging fire
in his spine, a cruel and brutal tangle of flames
consuming him and twisting him into a fragile
wick of ash, crumbling and gray. His hand
shook as he slowly reached for the gun, then he
quickly snatched it off the seat and scrambled
out of the car.
The stranger was almost to the edge of the
corn, but Jerry had a clear shot. He raised the
pistol in front of him with both hands, the
sight on the end of the barrel lying squarely
between the shoulder blades of the retreating
stranger. He held it there. Thirty yards. An
easy shot. He could do it any day of the week.
He raised the sight to the back of the
SstrangerTs head, then carried it further up to
the tassels of a nearby stalk. The bullet ripped
through the corn in a reverberating explosion,
sending silken tassels spiraling in the sunset
like fireworks. The stranger didnTt even turn
around. He must have known Jerry would
shoot to miss. Jerry cursed. He cursed himself
loudly and viciously for being utterly unable to
Shoot Troop in the back.
Jerry found an old golf shirt in the trunk of the
~ar and wrapped it carefully around the forty-
five, smothering the remnants of smoke that
were wafting from its barrel. He placed it care-
fully under the front seat of the Mercedes,
picked up the keys from the floorboard, and
turned the engine over. The sun was almost
down, or was at least too low to spray any
orange on the road. It was all completely gray
now, a long straight highway stretching flat and
gray in both directions, bordered tightly by the
mighty walls of coarse green corn. He gunned
the motor of the big Mercedes hard and roared
across that dead gray highway, laughing bitterly
in the dying light of late afternoon.
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90 Literary and Arts
by James Earl Casey
July was a month full of heavy afternoon sun.
Each day | watched the endless procession of
cars with their stolid-faced drivers and blistering chrome
parts move across the soft asphalt below
my window.
The thick fumes of that five oTclock traffic would
gather in the tired space
between my building and the next.
| would search our meager bit of sky
for pigeons.
My mother sat in the kitchen smoking
Stale cigarettes and fanning herself with
the morning paper. Those were tedious days
in the city.
| remember that torrid Friday afternoon,
the last weekend in July,
when my dad was laid off at work.
| was watching at the window
when he stepped out of the bus and lumbered
up the steps to our building. My mother was
crushing out a cigarette
when Dad nudged the door open.
| went back to my window.
It was then that | saw her,
lounging in a chair beside the fire hydrant.
Her hat was wide-brimmed and
flopped about as she turned her head to look up the street.
From my third story window
| couldnTt see her face,
but at her feet sat a basket
overflowing with the swollen red orbs
of pomegranates.
| watched a man in a stiff suit hand the
woman a coin and then steal away
with his precious fruit. My parents shouted like
dogs in the kitchen.
Maybe it was the sight of her,
amid the rehearsed chaos of the Friday afternoon,
or the incidental way in which she dispensed her
illustrated by Brian Woodleif
tropical fruits,
but | found myself swimming
in an odd mixture of
excitement and red-faced embarrassment.
Before | knew it, | had slipped past my parents
and descended
the steps of our building.
| stood for some time across the street from her,
watching her smile easily at the
unaffected toxi drivers.
The woman then grasped
a piece of the fruit and brought it to her mouth
with the composure of a slow
April rain.
From across the street, and above the savage din,
| imagined | could hear the sound of her teeth
parting the cool flesh of the thing.
My mind drifted in a fleeting
blissful moment as her hand wiped away
the sweet juices that had spilled
over her lips.
| thought of my father,
upstairs, sitting in his yellowed undershirt and
having aspirin with his icewater.
| thought of my mother
kneeled before a porcelain Madonna,
furiously crossing herself.
| thought of my open window.
Then, as the traffic lights shifted
and the street cleared out,
| truly understood the woman
who peddled pomegranates in
this broken city,
and | found
my salvation
in the soft and delicious
touch of her eyes.
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94
oIs the tree gonna die, Dad?�
DylanTs father smiled the faintest of smiles.
oNo, Dylan, donTt worry. The tree will grow
new leaves next spring.�
Relief spread over Dylan. He shuffled his
feet playfully in the leaves. The treeTs
branches seemed to wave to him in the
wind. oLive forever?�
oYep, just about forever.�
Wow, Dylan thought. He looked up at the tree
and tried to think about forever. Working his
mind, Dylan saw a younger tree on this same
road. In his vision a young boy dangled from a
too-thin branch. ~The branch bent, bent some
more, then broke. ~The boy fell, bravely hee-
hawing the whole way, and crashed to the
ground. oGrandpa,� Dylan said before he
could stop himself.
DylanTs father stopped in his tracks. He
crouched down to look at his son face-to-face.
oDylan, I meant the tree will live a very long
time... but all living things must die eventually.�
Literary and Arts
oWh-� Dylan stopped and looked beyond the
comforting smile into his fatherTs eyes, still red
from crying. What he saw there shook Dylan
with a chill. His father looked just like a scared
little boy. Why, he wanted to ask, why did
Grandpa have to die? But not to his father, not
to the tear-streaked face in front of him.
Instead he asked, oHow long will the tree live?�
oOh, I donTt know. Hundreds and hundreds
of years, I imagine,� DylanTs father answered
and stood up. Lind of sulyect, the gesture said.
Dylan and his father continued down the road.
The winter chill blew against them. Dylan felt
it most in his ears and in his fingers, now sting-
ing. Dylan turned from the wind to regroup
one last time. He turned his collar up, pushed
his hands deep in his pockets, and snuck one
last glance at the tree.
The tree stood alone on the road. With the
sun sinking behind the tree, outlining the tree
with a deep-amber glow, its branches seemed
the bony arms of an impossibly old creature.
~They swayed in the breeze. Dylan gulped.
oWe'd better hurry,� his father said, oMomTs
cooking dinner for us.�
With thoughts of death still heavy on his mind
and with the last light of the sun fading out,
Dylan lengthened his stride and quickened
his pace, and they made it home before Mom
could even begin to worry.
Dylan wolfed down the chicken and rice but
stopped at the broccoli. He never liked veg-
etables much anyway, but tonight something
about the shape of the broccoli disturbed him.
It looks just like little trees, he thought. While his
parents talked about grown-up stuff, Dylan
pocketed the broccoli and started on the
pumpkin pie. Pie was pie. It looked like noth-
ing else in the world.
After dinner, it was straight to bed. Those
were the rules in DylanTs house, whether he
liked them or not. You see, the bus comes
early to kids in the country, and DylanTs stop
was the first on the route. Sleep did not come
quickly for Dylan any more. Ever since his
grandfather died, Dylan learned to dread those
minutes between olightTs out� and sleep.
Worse, those minutes seemed to be getting
longer each night. ~The harder he tried to go to
sleep, the more he worried about it. The more
he worried about not being asleep, the harder
he tried. Hvery night. Sometimes exhaustion
would finally win, and heTd fall asleep despite
his worries. Other nights, heTd still be awake
when the birds started chirping and the sun
rolled over to begin another day.
Now, DylanTs room was new-moon dark, with
the only light coming from the glow-in-the-
dark stars pasted to his ceiling. DylanTs father
had arranged them in constellations, teaching
Dylan their names: the Big Dipper, the Little
Dipper, and Cas-see-o-pee-ah. When he
looked at the ceiling on this night, Dylan
thought not about the stars but about the
black spaces between them.
The thing Dylan missed most about Grandpa
was the bedtime stories he used to tell, just
the type of stories Mom and Dad refused to
let Dylan read. Before beginning each story,
Grandpa would reach over and muss up
DylanTs hair. It was a gesture of defiance - as
Mom and Dad always kept Dylan neatly
combed - from one conspirator to another .
Plus, as Grandpa explained once, you canTt
face monsters with your hair all neat like that.
The stories always involved a little boy, who
reminded Dylan of himself, in danger at the
hands of some monster. Dylan used to hang
onto every word " his eyes wide, his hands
as if he were the
clutching the bedspread
one in danger. And though the little boy
would always overcome his fears and conquer
the monsters, Grandpa never failed to make
the happy endings seem like little miracles.
Relief would then wash over Dylan, as his
fears were replaced by his love for Grandpa,
who with a phrase could change a demon into
a harmless joke. The happy endings made Dylan
feel safe; the darkness seemed less dangerous.
Tonight, with the wind howling through a
crack in the window, Dylan forgot all about
happy endings. All he could think about were
his fatherTs words, A// shings must die, and the
scared look on his face. Where Grandpa was
now, Dylan didnTt know and didnTt think his
father knew either. It was all too much to
think about on a school night.
At first Dylan thought the raspy sounds he
heard were coming from his own nervous
breathing. Then the sounds got louder. ~Then
the rasps became loud, crunchy, sliding
sounds. The window trembled from the noise.
Whatever is making those sounds is big, Dylan
thought, digzer than any animal. Worse still, the
noise was coming from the driveway. Dylan
grabbed his sheet; his hands balled into tiny fists.
Amid the churning rumble (getting closer),
Dylan recognized another sound. It was the
unmistakable sound of a strong gust blowing
against a tree: the whisper of leaves, the creak-
ing of branches. A sound made strange only
by the fact that DylanTs yard was completely
barren of trees. Nary even a bush.
Dylan could have stayed under his covers.
Yes, some part of him wanted to do just that,
to hide and hope the nightmare would pass.
Then he remembered (seemed to hear) his
GrandpaTs words: Face the unknown, Dylan.
With a burst of courage that he never knew he
had, Dylan leapt from his bed, ran towards the
window, tripped on one of his toy trucks, and
tumbled onto the carpet. Mom always told
Dylan to quit leaving things in the middle of
the floor, and now he knew why. Back on his
feet, he tiptoed the rest of the way. Dylan
could almost see the humor in the situation:
Dylan was supposed to remember his mult-
plication tables for tomorrow (up to 6 times 6)
with an earthquake going on outside his win-
dow. Why did no one else hear it? Finally,
Dylan got to the window and looked out
across his yard.
The oak tree, DylanTs tree, was making its
way down the gravel drive. What used to be
roots were now make-shift legs, dragging the
trunk through the pebbles, tearing huge
trenches in the drive. The branches wheeled
crazily trying to keep balance. ~The tre
bounced on its rope like a giant yo-yo. ~The
tree shook its head of leaves in frustration.
Dylan would have laughed if this scene were
in a story or something, but the tree was real
and was coming straight for his room. Dylan
stood paralyzed in front of the window. ~The
tree continued its awkward struggle. One limb
reached out to the station wagon, another to
the compact. Dylan watched as the two limbs
pulled and the roots dragged. ~The bark,
stretched out of shape, complained with a
moan, but finally the trunk slid the rest of the
way to the house. It tore through the electrical
wires like a man stumbling through spider
webs in the dark.
Dylan heard his Dad shout from the living room
to no one in particular, oShoot, the powerTs out,�
then telling Mom, oBetter get some candles.�
You're gonna need more than candles, Dvlan
said to himself, looking right into the bark of
the creature. Dylan knew that his window was
cracked open, and he thought seriously about
closing it. Instead, Dylan summoned all of his
bravery (and all of the bravery of all the little
boys in all of GrandpaTs stories), fit his fingers
in the windowTs opening, and pulled up with
all of his might. ~The window banged against
the top of the frame. Dylan figured that the
tree could have busted through that window
anyway so why not impress the monster with
some bravery.
From downstairs, oDylan, what was that noise?�
Whether the tree was impressed or not, Dylan
didnTt know. It just stayed there and swayed
where the wind blew it. ~Then Dylan heard
the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs,
His parents. Oh no. For some reason Dylan
knew his parents would blame him for this:
the plowed driveway, the damaged power
line, the eighty-foot oak tree standing outside
his window.
The tree must have noticed DylanTs anxiety.
for then it started to move. The branch. a thin
one with a single leaf, reached slowly into
DylanTs room, feeling its way past the window
sill, brushing a lamp but not knocking it over,
Dylan held his breath as the branch stopped
two inches from his head.
Ihe footsteps approached fast " now in the
hallway... now near the bathroom... now just
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Rebel Ninety-Five
95
outside his door.
~The end of the branch opened like a skele-
tonTs hand and stretched its bony fingers.
DylanTs heartbeat was a drum roll. ~The
| branchTs hand glided over DylanTs face and
stopped on the top of his head. His parents
| pounded on the door: oWhatTs going on in
there?� ~The branchTs fingers began to muss
DylanTs hair " slowly at first, then picking up
speed. Dylan heard the doorknob turn behind
him. ~The branch was moving wildly now.
~Twisting. Turning. Weaving. Winding.
His parents charged into room like policemen
in one of those ~TTV shows. ~The branch
slipped out the window just in time. oHave
you gone crazy, Dylan?� his father asked.
Dylan saw the tree hustle back down the
driveway, magically smoothing the gravel
back to normal.
oYou're sure to catch a cold,� Mom said and
peer |
diy: ty
pila.
"
j shut the window. Dylan caught a final
glimpse of the tree " making excellent time
" as it took a nght turn and rambled down
i | the road out of sight. DylanTs eyes then
| focused on the window itself and his reflec-
| | tion lying there. He couldnTt resist a giggle.
Not a single hair in place.
Dylan had no problems going to sleep after
that night. Indeed, on most nights Dylan "
j wild hair and all " barely had time to hit the
pillow before falling into a deep, snoring
snooze. On other nights like Christmas Eve
and Birthday Eve, Dylan did stay up late. It
was OK though, since he was staying awake
to imagine gifts and other good things.
The old oak returned to its familiar spot on
the road to the graveyard " where else did it
have to go? " and in time Dylan went back
~
to playing there. He again climbed the treeTs
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branches and swung on the tire. Sometimes... oa
while dangling on the tire, Dylan swore he
| could feel a gentle push on his back, and soon
heTd be whooshing through the air and swing-
ing towards the heavens.
96 Literary and Arts
RAM IRA R MR RE ct RR
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