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rebel 1999

ted
amie ee

east carolina university

literary S& arts magazine

volume 41

si) A FE

The Rebel is produced for and by the students of East Carolina University.
Offices are located in the Student Publications Building. Volume 41 and
its contents are copyrighted 1999 by the Rebel. All rights revert to the
individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents may not be
reproduced by any means, nor may any be stored in any information
retrieval system without the written permission of the writer or artist.

mK) Printed on recycled paper with nonstate funds.

editor

Alan Buna

art director

Brandie Knox Kirkman

design
Alan Burma
FeO blag etmiain

Brandie Knox Kirtkiman

multimedia CD design

Ryan Webb

art judges
Billy Giese-Vella
Diana Henshaw

Dorothy Satter lela

literary judges
Dale |aco is
Tyson King-Meadows

ROwert Siecc!

gallery photographer

Gathenme Vy al ker

faculty advisor

Craig Malmrose
student media staff
Paul Wright

Yvonne Moye

copy editor

Jennifer Fafe

sound editor

Jonathan Powell

FICTION 66

FZ

64

58

12

NONETCTION. a

> |)

7®

POETRY 4

a7

49

OZ

84

CONTEN [5

The Wiseacre Revealed by William Stacey Cochran

Hirst place

What | Know by Mary Carroll-Hackett

Second place

Net by Mary Carroll-Hackett
third place

Sandstone Beige by Christopher English
third place

Deep Water and Drowning by Stephen Losey

merit award

Waiting for Gypsies by Robin Springer

Hirst place

AY Cian tave oy Robi Spe neen

Second piace

Guess Things Happen That Way by Jennifer Leggett
Enid place

INGIVES ang Oia, Bont oy DB Witeedn simi t w

first place

Finding, a Homeless Man Observed by Cristian Skinner

Second piace

Beyond tne Waders oy (EMriseopier Sa lern@
Cid place

Igo) Dy leather Gutmrie

ment award

Rengies Mare Doligns bY Cristian Sinner

ment aware

GALLERY

27 §6~best im sow
Jans. ceramics

30 §=6Siabhe design
32 illustration
34 metal design
36 painting

38 photography
29 printmaking
40 sculpture

42 textile design
43 Wood design

44

mulerme dia

see
ae

ais

a

¢

Young

Susan

a

One for old bones

One for tired feet

& faces of midnight youth
whose black Ponytails
and cryptic tee shirts

Crowd in with modern SOME, Nees r Wives,

carcinogenic Poets, dribbling artists,

and to think this will all be gone

begs the issue of population displacement.
what landlord could understand

those like me who wil return,

long after, to stare Into Empty windows
sniffing Ue eracic fap grease and smoke,

tugging hopelessly at a door

now locked for the first time in their memory?

for if this door Should be locked,

we'll all age with the knowledge of Mortality

PE FORKS, BENT

Dy MICCAy SMITH

POE TR Y

PLAGE -

FIRST

S siffiagy uvky

_ ROBIN SPRINGER

| spent my childhood summers roaming
my grandpaTs farm in Upstate New York.
The farmTs heart, a rambling white farmhouse with dark green,
almost black, shutters, had a broad, grassy front yard that was
dotted with ancient, shady maples, horse chestnut trees, yellow tea
rose bushes and tall lilac bushes whose deep purple flower clusters
scented the air for days in early spring. Kitty-corner from the house
was a huge 3-story red barn, low-slung open-faced implement
sheds, and a gas pump. The barn was built into the side of a hill. It
stood two stories high in front, with its wide front doors opened
back on double hinges and propped open with old boards. The
basement story opened out back onto a muddy cow enclosure.
Open pastures dotted with Black Angus cattle and sheep, and fields
planted with hay and corn, fanned out from house and barn for
what seemed like miles. Hedgerows of brush and stunted trees, the

fieldsT natural boundaries, were ghost-like remainders of New

YorkTs old-growth forests.

GrandmaTs big farm kitchen. The only light was a single dim bulb on the back of the
stove. Dark red cherries on a pink wallpaper background glowed darkly. Grandma sat,
fully dressed in her starched white nursesT uniform, in shadow at her Formica-topped
table, sipping instant Maxwell House made with hot tap water. Grandpa, with his grace-
fully squat, etched silver toaster and jar of homemade orange marmalade, sat with her in
contented silence, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tanned brown forearms resting on the
tableTs chrome edge. Grandpa made me toast and we sat, me shivering in my nightie,
until the rest of the house came awake and joined us.

cousins did, too. There were six of us kids altogether, close in age, stair-steps in size.
Dan, with his pure shining face and sensitive poet-soul, and breezy cartwheel-turning
Becca were the oldest. Tim and I were a messy set of bookends, both 7 years old, born
in March and July. Blond Molly, two years younger, looked like an angel in her Dutch
Boy haircut. Her sturdy legs pumped her bike up and down the road for hours at a
time. Andy, the baby monkey, tagged along.

NONE! GTION

FIRST PLACE :

Every morning I woke in chilly summer greyness, and crept across cold floors to

My mom and little sister Molly stayed at the farm with me, and sometimes my

Jason Smith

Every morning, when the sun was full up, we burst through GrandmaTs glass paned
front door onto a wide front porch and charged down the slate walk under a canopy of
maple trees, past an old square, wooden well cover (perfect for a stage, if it hadnTt been
rotting) to freedom. Grandma called us wild Indians; we ran free from morning to night,
hardly ever within sight or earshot of the house. We were grubby and sunburned, fragrant
with dirt and fresh air. Our hair, under crowns of tall, bright yellow dandelions braided
together, smelled like sweet child sweat. The dandelion stemsT bitter milk stained our
fingers and shirt fronts. Tagging along after Grandpa, we crowded onto the stone-boat he
dragged behind his little green John Deere tractor. In the fields at hay-baling time, we
clung to the high, swaying wooden slatted sides of the hay wagon, watching hay bales spit
out the back end of a high arched baler. GrandpaTs hired man threw them up to him in
the wagon, and he stacked hundreds of bales with methodical precision while the sun
baked the backs of our heads. The overloaded wagon lumbered back to the barn in the
evening; the bales were thrown onto an elevator leaning against a small shuttered window
in the barnTs gable. They were carried up and disappeared inside to be stacked in the
eaves. At suppertime we trudged back to the house and gathered close around the free-
standing kitchen sink to watch Grandpa carefully lather and scrub dirt and hay chaff off

his hands and arms, neck and face with gray, grainy Lava soap.

When Grandpa walked his slow, deliberate, slightly bent
over walk out to the barn to do chores, we swarmed across the
road with him into the dark cavernous first floor that was split in
two by a shaft of light pouring in through the front doors. We
tumbled down pitted, cupped wooden steps into the barnTs cool,
semi-dark basement while Grandpa climbed up into the hayloft
to heave hay bales down two stories through a trapdoor in the
floor. He followed them down, emerging little by little, feet first,
through the trap and climbed carefully down a narrow ladder.
Hay dust hung, swirling and glinting, in shafts of sunlight. We sat
astride the splintery post-and-board fence and watched Grandpa
lug the heavy bales into the cow stalls. He cut the fuzzy twine
holding them together with his pocket knife and forked the hay
into stanchions, stepping quickly between the cows. Grandpa
warned us in his quiet, low voice that we could get stepped on
by a dairy cow or crushed between two of them. They were mild
and friendly but very large and bulky, and inclined to rub against
each other. He swatted their rumps and, munching hay, swinging
their tails, theyTd snort a little and stamp their feet, slightly
annoyed but resigned, before moving over for him.

Sheep lived in the basement of the barn, too. We got them
all stirred up and nervous just by being down there near them.
Some huddled together and ran, rolling their eyes and bleating,
ears pinned back, around the perimeter of their pen, swirling
like water going down a drain. Some stood stock-still, looking
surprised like for all the world they could say, ooWhat? me?
Nothing!� Grandpa kept the grain binTs heavy wooden cover
pushed aside just enough to be able to reach in up to his armpit
and scoop out bucketsful of corn for those silly sheep baaTing
and scrambling around him.

The barnTs back basement section was open so GrandpaTs
cows could plod in and out as they pleased. The muddy outside
enclosure was surrounded by an electric fence. Grandpa kept
the voltage just high enough to prickle a cowTs nose if it got too
curious. A galvanized steel culvert with a trickle of water running
through it into the pen lay under Fenner Road. One day I
climbed down into it, arms and legs outstretched in a big x,
and lurched from one end of it to the other. My whoops and the
echoes made by my feet and hands banging its sides turned it
into a sound chamber. When I clambered out of the culvert into
the bright sunlight, I slipped and grabbed that electric fence. I
stood in two inches of water, feeling the prickly jolt of electricity
go through my fingers, staring into the barn, praying Grandpa
wouldnTt see, unable to let go. One of the boys, Tim or Dan,
leaned down from on top of the culvert and dragged me away.
The creases on the palms of my hands had little burns in them.
Daniel and I ran away, way out across the fields to the woods,
and hid there all day so no one would find out. It had started to
get dark when we got scared and slunk back home, practically

eaten alive with mosquito bites.

Grandma came home from the hospital every afternoon around
4:30. Molly, jumping rope or skipping and singing up and down
the walk, always saw the car first ooGrandmaTs home!� Grandma
wheeled into the driveway in her little red Rambler (we stayed
back, lined up like soldiers, until the car was turned off, then we
pushed each other aside to be first to grab the door handle) and
jumped out, the white stockings on her long legs flashing in the
late afternoon sun. Grandma looked like Maureen OTHara; she
was tall and slender and had short auburn hair she put up in
curlers at night. Her long starched uniform was usually unbut-
toned when she got out of the car. She stood in the driveway
with her full slip showing, flapping her uniform open and shut,
panting, saying oI thought ITd roast in there!� Then she strode
up the walk toward the house, looking back over her shoulder at
us, uniform unfurling like a flag behind her, pulling out the
bobby pins that held her peaked nurseTs cap on top of her head.

We ran up to the house behind her and found her sitting sideways at the kitchen table in her slip with her stockings rolled down
around her ankles, her thin legs crossed and twined around each other. Her left hand curled around a mug of tepid, foamy Maxwell
House (she always made her coffee with hot tap water; she couldnTt wait for the kettle to boil, and besides oITd have to put cold
water in it to cool it down anyway�), and her right hand sopped her face and neck with a dishtowel. oPhwew! ITm tired,� she said
to my mom. Mom was fixing supper, peeling potatoes and putting them on to boil, setting the table, checking whatever she had in the
oven. After a few minutes, Grandma was up and changed into her highwater pants and holey Keds, going to the back room to put
laundry in the washer, banging out through the back porch screen door, pulling dry laundry off the clothesline and folding it, stiff and
smelling like warm sunshiny air, into her wicker basket. She wandered across the yard to check her garden. We dug our toes into the
crumbly dirt and she let us pick beans - still warm - to eat oJust brush the dirt off it.�, She bent down, feet splayed out, to pull a few
stray weeds, and told us about her day at the hospital. Oh, gruesome tales of amputated fingers, noses rotted away from syphilis, and
how she tricked an incompetent lab with apple juice substituted for urine samples. She always had a story about bloody accident
victims who died from lack of care. oaLways change your underwear before you go out. Believe me, you kids, if youTre dirty, the
nurses will wheel your gurney right into a corner and let you lay there and die!� We looked at each other, delighted with the gore,

and silently vowing never to be caught in dirty underwear.

Grandma slept out with us on a shaded
screen porch on the side of the house facing
Fenner Road. We lay in the dark listening
to peepers cheeping shrilly, madly, and

later in the summer to the sweet chirp of

crickets. Occasionally a bobcat screamed

far away, sounding like a terrified woman,
only louder and wilder. Grandma snored
softly and we whispered and rustled and
giggled until finally she couldnTt resist.
Her voice would emerge " it seemed so
loud and startled us " out of the dark,
oBe quiet and go right to sleep, or that
bobcat might hear you and come
through the screen.� We laughed oRight,
Gram,� but lay silently peering out
through the darkness and the next thing
we knew, it was morning.

The screen porch was a log cabin
when we played Daniel Boone on rainy

days. Tim always played DanTl, because

he had a coon-skin cap Santa had brought

Jason Smith him one Christmas. Dan was always the
Indian scout, because that way he could be in the game but
spend most of the day wandering around in the woods, getting
wet and bringing us game (usually frogs and baby mice he
found). I was the wife, sweeping and bustling, always fearful of
Indian attacks oOh, DanTl, do ya think the Indians are coming
today? DonTt wander too far, children!�. We wrapped our baby
dolls tightly in blankets, ourselves in GrandmaTs faded old

castro

aprons, and put our babies to sleep in dresser drawers. Pretend-
ing to take the wagon into town, we lay on daybeds in GrandmaTs
breezy back bedroom and watched old movies on Dialing for
Dollars at 1:00.

Milliken Station was a coal-burning power generation plant on
the edge of Cayuga Lake that provided power for a large portion
of the Finger Lakes area. Millions of years ago, glaciers moving
south from the Arctic carved out these long, narrow lakes, and
left them edged with steep foothills. GrandpaTs farm was spread
on the rise of one of those foothills above the lake. Cayuga Lake
is bordered by two main highways, Route 96 on the west side
and Route 34B on the east. Several times a day, Milliken dump
trucks loaded with cinders and fly ash struggled two miles up a
winding, narrow dirt road from the station, crossed Route 34B,
and started their trek up Davis Road past the farm. We could
hear the trucks shifting gears as they climbed the hill, hear the
engines rev higher and higher as acceleration finally roared into
cruising speed. Nearby farmland that the power company bought
up for dumping was dotted with 2-story high mounds of cinders
and ash left by the dump trucks, like the leavings of some huge
horrid prehistoric animals.

Grandma had three things she worried about. The main
one was that one of us would lose an eye. Whenever she passed
us outside on a trip to the garden or clothesline or mailbox, she
said oDonTt run with a stick in your hand! You'll put your eye
out.� Her other two main warnings involved ~the road.T She was
afraid if we played near Davis Road (which was a paved, two-
lane main road, not an oiled gravel road like Fenner), weTd be
stolen by hoboes or Gypsies (who had a reputation as thieves)
like the ones who had traveled through the countryside during
the Great Depression, asking for food. oIf you play by the road,
you'll get stolen by Gypsies. They travel around and steal
children, you know.� It didnTt matter that neither hoboes or
Gypsies had been seen anywhere around for years and years.
Grandma used whatever artillery she had in her war to keep us
back from the road. She also feared the big Milliken dump trucks.
oTI donTt want you kids to play down by the road! ThereTs no
shoulder and those Milliken trucks drive too fast. One of
them could fall over on you.�

She was convinced that on one of its trips up Davis Road,
one of those dump trucks would suddenly pitch right over at the
exact spot one of her grandchildren happened to be standing,
as if by being at the road they were some sort of kid-magnet for
disaster. I was never sure how that would happen " would the
truck come thundering past and simply fall over without slowing
down, or would it screech to a halt, give a little hop, and topple
over like a dying elephant?

I loved the idea of getting stolen by Gypsies! In spite of the
danger of runaway trucks and being down by the road against

GrandmaTs warnings, I planned to go right out there where they

could find me easily. I had no idea what Gypsies were like,
besides being kid-stealers, but I pictured them (from Dialing
for Dollars, of course) as foreign, dark creatures with enticingly
flashing black eyes and gleaming white teeth (which a person
could see because they held daggers or red roses between them).
Gypsies traveled in exotically decorated red horse-drawn wagons,
like the ProfessorTs in The Wizard of Oz. The men wore long-
sleeved boat neck black and white striped leotard-like T-shirts,
red bandannas around their necks, tight black pants, and high
boots, like Burt Lancaster in Captain Blood. Gypsy women wore
long, flounced, flower-print skirts with lots of petticoats (which a
person could see when the skirts were shaken at mesmerized
spectators during seductive campfire dances), flat ballerina shoes
and white peasant blouses worn daringly low off their shoulders,
like Jean Peters in Captain from Castle. There was a lot of passion
and singing in a Gypsy camp.

So, all day long one day, while locusts buzzed their high-
pitched drone, I lay belly-down on the embankment of Davis
Road, eyes level with its surface. Clots of new-mown wet grass
clung to my shorts and shirt. Bright sunlight glimmered on the
backs of my bare legs and short, dark hair. The other kids were
off somewhere " in the barn, in the swing, in the corncrib. |
heard little bits of their conversation oWhere you goinT, Dan?�
oSomebody push me!� and MollyTs bike horn crying oArrugah!
Arrugah!� I could hear a truck coming before I could see it, and
then I could feel it. My ear pressed against the ground, the vibra-
tions moved into my head and down my spine until I felt as
though my insides would break apart like an egg yolk beaten with
a fork. Each time a truck roared by, raising a dusty wind and leaving
a trail of bouncing cinders, I had to shut my eyes against the grit.
The mailman drove up in his dusty car with US Mail painted on
a piece of cardboard propped in the windshield; I saw him open
the creaky mailbox door and exchange bundles of mail. He low-
ered the red metal flag and waved at me. Finally, Grandma
wheeled into the driveway. I watched the kids dance around her
swirling skirt; Molly began singing John facob finglehermer
Schmidt and they all shouted the chorus. The cows in their pen
across the road turned their heads and looked on, impassive and
slightly amused. Tim yelled, oRob, come on! DanTs got a HUGE
white tadpole! ItTs a freak! YouTve gotta see it!� I looked at the
road for a second, and when I turned back and started running,
they were all waiting for me when I got to GrandmaTs red Rambler.

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what l

know MARY CARROLL-HACKETT

Night slips around me as I run through the brush.
I feel the blood now, seeping and sticky and warm.
But I canTt stop. ThereTs three short yips, sharp
and high then the howling builds. It fills the empty sky
and I ainTt got much time.
ITm in a dry river bed. A used-to-be river sucked up
and gone. Turned to ridges of sand brushed with grass fit
only for cattle. The fence mocks what used to be the bank
and in a flash, I can remember that river, glistening and
free-running. I remember its taste, sand and chalk in my
mouth. Just a spring left, murky in places, not what I recall.
From here near the fence, where the brush grows higher, fringe
around the posts, where the goldenrod escapes the bushhogs
they bring down to clear it, I can just make out his shape.
Hunched, he 1s a slanted shadow and only when he lifts his head
to his god, begging to be let out of the steel jaws that hold him
there, can I even tell what he is. Coyote. I edge down, knowing that
if I rise up, he wonTt let me near. HeTll turn like a man, stand me
down. So I crawl.

The howling is so loud, it rattles down my ribs.
He stops when he smells me, drops the howl. He knows now [Tm
here. And given the trap, he canTt know I mean to help. A growl climbs
up the column of his throat and he turns. His ears are black peaks against
the gray night. The stick in my hand 1s at least six feet long. Usually, I move

slower. Usually six feet is enough.
The grass grabs at my legs. Itching and burning. One knee bent up and
my belly slides me closer to him. Blood fills my ears and soon my own self is
louder to me than the howl.

PleTi ON

PLACE

SECOND

The end of my stick is there, stretched out before me like another arm. He eyes me
as I move toward him, stands back, shifts on his three free legs, he growls again. Lower
this time, itTs a threat. Plain talk. Come closer, he says, and I'll kill ya. Fl
rip out your throat and leave you to drain and fill up this river.

And heTd be within his rights. He can smell me good now, ITm so close. And he
knows that man-odor from the trap. But he canTt know I ainTt the one.

In the distance, I hear a truck starting up.

Two more feet. The end of the stick is notched. Notched just right, just like the scars
on my thighs, a v cut for to fit round a three-quarter inch steel pin. To fit the lock on the trap.

My sight has adjusted to the dark and I can see the faint yellow orbs of his eyes.
He is silent but moving. Draws his front feet up tight together. Like to jump. I know he
has found the bare curve of my neck through the dark. He can see much better than me
in this bruise-black night. I swallow once but itTs hard, muscles bound in my throat.

I want to leave. I want to leave now.

But l can ¢.

I see lights bob up over the ridge. Truck lights. Halogens, gold and wide, so as to
catch more of the plain in one sweep.

The end of the stick strikes the trap. Dull clink, wood on metal. A fearful good
sound. It takes both my hands to steady the length of the stick, make it fit. So I jerk it
around some. Splinters shear off into the flats of my hands. Almost there, the notch slips
over the rounded jaw of the trap, skids down across rounded closed steel. My head gets
all light, dizzy feeling when ITm just about done. CTmon nowTs what I think, cTmon now to
the stick. I take my eyes off his eyes and look down toward the pin. I know better. He feels
my let-go and he lunges.

I stop. I canTt breathe. The stick bridges between us and my own piss burns into the
cut on my leg. He7ll kill me, I think. He'll kill me, I know. They
scare me. No matter how many yellow eyes I look into or springs I spring, I ainTt stupid
enough not to be scared. I can see the rise of his shadow, like a black cloud he hangs a
yard off the ground.

The trap snaps him back. He slams down on the curve of his spine and yelps at the
fall. The thud on the ground echoes through my knees and I smell meat on the air. I wait
for him to get back to his feet. ITm SOTrY, [ think. ITm SOrTY CAUSE [know
how p ride hurts when itTs broke. Wook straight into him, will him to know
that I know. The truck rumbles closer over the ridge so I steady the stick and start over.

This time he donTt move.

:
'
i

There!
The notch finds it place over the metal pin. Holding my breath, I get up to my feet. My belly
burns from the ground and the fear and I push, push with all I got on my end of the stick. It forces
the trap back against his mangled leg and he yowls. His pain makes a sound that I dream, when
I dream. Teeth flash and waves of spit curl round the gray streaks at his mouth. But he donTt
understand what I do. I shove all my weight into my shoulder and against the end of the
stick, bite my lip to keep from yelling out myself. The notch finds its mark and the trap springs.
Blackened iron teeth finally let go. Let go of the fur and the flesh and bared
bone and I run. Run like hell across the dry river bed and back over the fence.
He won't catch me. Hell try. But he ain't got but three legs
and [know how much time I need to still make the fence.
So Ijump. Jump just as I feel the heat from his breath on the line of my calf.
The ground comes up fast on the other side and I roll hard against uneven
packed earth. He bites at the barbed wire, trying to get through. Now that heTs They SCAYVE TNE.
free, he wants me to pay for that pain. And for seeing that fall. Then he turns
and looks back at the rising sound of the truck. The frame clanks and No matter how Many
bumps across the dry ridge. Caught between threats, gold angry eyes cut
away from me for a minute, a long minute. From me to the truck. But yellow eyes fi! look mn lo
still I wait there on the ground. If I move too sudden, he might decide
Wasim dine closer cl. or springs I spring,
Small streams of sweat weave across my breasts and pain wells
between the bones of my shoulder. The overhead lights, kill I ain 4) stup ad enough
lights, bright as day, come on from the top of the truck. The
coyote blinks and I can see his eyes widen at the light, venom not to be scared
yellow, pupils dwindle into one single black spot. He moves
away quickly, slinks along the fence. In the post-high
brush, hugged up in goldenrod, he never gives me
another look.
I gasp and roll down into the crevice that once
fed the river. A big old mouth gaping open, it swal-
lows me into the darkness. The truck comes to a
stop past the fence. My own breath sounds like
a roar and closed up in this hole just below the

level of light, now I wait.

Tt 1 Oo N

Ee

SECOND PLACE. -

The sound of quick bootheels bite
at the ground. Closer. Then closer. They
halt at the trap, gapped open and empty.

I know without looking that heTs took off his

hat. I close my eyes, hang on to my breath,

try to pin any sound down deep in my chest.

I picture the brim of the hat in his fist, closed up
tight. One hand goes to his hair and shoves it
straight back. My back is pure fire now but I know
I canTt move. Just like the Tyote, he wonTt understand.

He whistles out one long slow angry note.

Damn! he says. Damn trapTs tripped again. How
the hell do they keep gettinT out? HeTs just above the
crevice. I picture him there, just feet away, a shadow man
in the glare of the lights. Dust and fear choke me up and
I try to remember where the stick fell.

Back to the truck, bootheels echo away. I strain to hear
the sound of the door closing. For minutes. For hours. The
fireTs gone out now in my back, gone icy and numb. I canTt tell
where I end and the ground starts. Finally, the kill lights click off

and the truck jumps to life. Backs up, fades away into the dark

Damn! he says.

Damn trapTs
tripped again.
How the hell

do they keep

gettin > out

until it ainTt nothing but a hum on the ridge. Then I can let myself

breathe but thereTs dirt in my mouth. I sit up, scrape it out with my

fingers and spit, drag the edge of my skirt on the front of my teeth.

My stick I find close up to the fence. I take my time walking home.

Stop by the spring just past the house and drop the skirt all torn to

shreds on the ground. The acheTs settled in good now down the length

of my arms, even across the bony backs of my hands. My shirt comes off

harder. I have to move round the pain. Finally, ITm free and I slowly slide in.

WaterTs scarce here but at night, it seems endless and cool and I swim out into

the dark. This quiet I know, know like the spring as it weeps round my thighs.

What I know, I know like a river. Flowing up and around me, I know him not

to be the one. Not here. Not forever. Although forever for me ainTt so long anymore.

Once coyotes roamed here, silver-backed and loose-jawed, P?'d watch them in

the whisper light that comes from no moon over long stretched earth. Forever was

forever then, when my knees still folded up beneath me without pain, and the knobs of
my spine shivered at the wildness in their eyes. ITd sit in the ridges carved up on the
riverbank and will them to come. Then my bones knew things my mind hadnTt gotten a
hold of yet. Then, I thought he was the choice I had. The one who would both free up
and fill that moonless sky. Now, I know.

And now, I reckon, itTs too late.

That blue speckled pot sits on the counter just over there. He give it to me, sitting
up on my MamaTs porch. His words were shiny-new, squared off at the vowels, and he
bragged on what he knew, cattle, adobe, and man skills, the locked-up tight knowing of
his reputation round town. He presented himself to me like a gift, wrapped and tied in
bright cotton and denim that frayed at the heels of his boots. He presented himself to my
Daddy. New truck. Good job. Gonna buy some cattle.

Outside, I hitched up the hem of my skirt, waiting for his eyes to follow the fine line
of my calf, but instead he studied the warp of the boards that ranged across the porch. In
the distance, beyond the yellow street lamp, outside the crowd of voices that come
through the window from DaddyTs brand new black and white tv, I thought I heard a
howl climb up on the night. He asked me if my answer was yes and straightening my skirt,
I admired the drop of his eyes. A few coarse lashes, smudged wire, and the box he had made
of his hands, steady box with even sides, there in his lap. Waiting. He was waiting for me.

Oh the power of it then.

I asked him did he hear the coyote howl and he said no, just the wind. So, I nodded.
He was right, the wind, and my answer, in my new-sprung power, was yes. That was
when he was forever.

Now, the riverbed I knew is dry and they donTt use adobe no more. I cook beans,
pintos, fat and brown as beetles in that blue-speckled pot. The enamel is chipped, baring
the black soul of the pot and the top is gone but most times, I donTt use it anyway. HeTs
still square and even, leaves his boots by the door. Boots dragged with mud and dust from
the ridge. Smelling of steer, he never forgets to thank me for supper, even if itTs nothing
but frybread and milk. The Tv in our house is full-range color with a remote that my
Daddy would of loved sure. I got no need to ask for nothing.

So I don't.

The neighbor women fill my big kitchen with their envy and shoo and shaw me
when I ask them if they read this poem or that. Or if they ever thought of being some-
where else, E] Paso. Or even Abilene. Or north and east where thereTs still rivers. They

tell me shut my mouth and give my thanks even if | twist my hair up to see how it might

I asked him did he hear

the coyote howl and he
said no, just the wind.
So, [ nodded. He was
right, the wind, and
my answer, in my new-

sprung power, was yes.

Ley ION

SECOND PEACE -

7

Damunedest thing,
he says again.
That's gonna scar

right into a

take to cutting. So I smile and pour coffee into the blue-speckled cups he got me to match

the pot and never even dare to ask them if they hear the coyotes howl at night.

They leave like they say women should when he comes home in the failing light from
the herd. He holds his hat in his hand and nods to each, calls them by their proper names,
even holds the door just above the lock to show them out. He pushes back the sling of
black hair that always insists on falling straight down into his face and with that hat rest-
ing on the top of his thigh, he tells me heTs going to fix that turned-up board by the porch
steps. I feel the room around me get smaller with the same of it all. Beans with hock meat
eurgle up, complain in the pot, and so I dish them out while he washes his hands with the
slip of soap at the sink.

Coyotes got away is what he says. Again. Damnedest thing.
I got to do some work on them traps, he says as he waits for me to finish the food. He talks
looking down at the table. He did clean up down round the spring, he tells me. Must be
kids has took to going down there, he says, from the stuff that I found. I burned it all up.
I wonder to myself if the stick burned slow and even, resisted the flames. I see the notch
like fingers point to the sky from his fire.

The spoon slips from my hand back down into the heat and I grab at it too quick.
The side of the pan burns two lines into the soft flesh just under my thumb. I yelp from
the pain and the chair falls as he bumps to his feet, takes up my fingers. HeTs gentle and
not missing a thing. Salve first, from the box he keeps up under the sink. Then a bandage,
gauze and white tape. Just before heTs done, he looks down and laughs. Tells me to look.

Damnedest thing, he says again. ThatTs gonna scar right into a V.

I pull back my hand and hand him his plate. While he eats, he ainTt looking, so I slip
his knife from where it sits by the door, hide it into a pocket in my skirt. I move round the
kitchen and feel better when the knife swings heavy on my thigh. Night falls outside and
I wash up the pot, scrape out the blood-brown of the beans. The water pulls at the
bandage, loosens the tape. It pours unstopped cross the bridge my hand makes.

He asks me did you hear that? Damn coyote again.

I say sorry, no, what? Must be the wind.

I donTt turn off the water, just let it run. The blister 1s rising good now and as he eats and

talks, the skin bubbles beneath a river of water. I watch the scar spread into av just like wings.

...And his triumph, when he triumphs,
1S OUTS. = jfames Baldwin

DEEP water AND

STEPHEN LOSEY

oYou. Hey, you.� I sat my beer down and turned towards the voice
behind me. oListen, I need someone to play rhythm.�
oYou want me to play?� I asked. His staccato attack surprised me
a lot more than the fact that he seemed to come out of nowhere.
oYeah, I want you to play! SomeoneTs gotta back me up, so go on,
man, get your ass up there,� he said slowly, like I was a four-year old.
The man stalked onstage and plugged his guitar in as I hesitated at
my table. When his expression turned to one of irritation, I decided it
would be best to join him. A thin, chestnut man walked in and called,
oPley, Gtee!
oPaulo, whatTs up?� the man beside me replied.
oNothinT much. Damn, itTs been a while! How you been?�
oAll right, not too bad. Still got your bass?�
oSure, need me to play?�
oYeah, could you?�
oNo problem, man, no problem.� Paulo laid his case down and pulled

a deep black bass with a sticker of a green and yellow flag on it. He

walked to the stage, thumping and plucking mute strings.

&

2

Bryan Flynn

oWhatTs your name, buddy?� Paulo
asked me.

hob, aad you te Paulo?�

oThatTs right.� He shook my hand and
flashed a grin that swallowed his face. oSo
call it, Greg,� he said.

oYou know Killing Floor?�

oSure. What key?�

"Lets ado it im A,�

oAll right, bud, count it off.�

After GregTs four count, Paulo and I slid
into the groove. We jumped from chord to
chord in unison, like we were joined at the
hip. The drummer buoyed our rhythm
with one stick jumping and stuttering on
the snare as the other swung the high hat.

Paulo smiled. I could almost see the

oo pulse travel up and down his spine. Notes

skipped, one after another, and I felt each
thump from the bass amp rumble my chest.

Then Greg stumbled a measure.

I whipped my eyes toward his furrowed
brow and lost fingers. He was trying to
find a way out. Greg searched through
patterns of notes, but couldnTt find any-
thing that fit in the tapestry of chords.
When the passage ended, relief showed
on his face. He let his guitar hang slack
and muttered into the mic.

Paulo looked worried. Greg stopped
singing and began to play again. He tried
to wing a solo, but quickly became con-
fused again. I shrugged my shoulders at
Paulo and kept sawing at the chords.

Greg glared at us and threw his pick to
the ground. He jerked the cord out of his

oWhat?� Paulo yelled over the

first few notes of their next song.

amplifier with a loud pop and stepped off
the stage. The song decayed as we watched
Greg in shock and amazement. He pushed
his way through a young couple to reach
his table. As if punishing a disobedient
child, he banished his guitar to its case and
closed it with a bang. It lay forgotten as he
went back to the bar.

oWell, you want to play another...� I
started to ask before the drummer left the
stage and made my question pointless.

oGuess not,� Paulo said, and walked to
the bar. He sat at the stool next to Greg
and started a conversation I couldnTt hear.

Another drummer sat behind the kit
and tapped the ride cymbal.

oYou going to play?� he asked.

oHuh? Oh. No, I think I'll sit this one
out.� It didnTt have any appeal for me just
then. I wouldnTt really have enjoyed it.
The whole scene had put me in a funk
and I was kind of embarrassed, even
though I wasnTt the one who had freaked
out. I just coiled up my cord and slunk
back to my table.

The music began. I nursed my beer
and tried to forget the last five minutes.

A pretty blonde in her late twenties
strummed a fat hollowbody electric and
sang Georgia On My Mind. Her voice was
faint and trembled slightly on the first
verse, but she grew bolder as the song
went on. The band followed her intensity.
The bassist sounded each note with
bedrock accuracy. The drummer rolled
across the toms, battered the crash cymbal
with one powerful blow and the woman
jumped freely into the final verse, without
any inhibitions. She drew each breath
deep and pulled words right from the gut,
leaning into the microphone.

oSheTs got a good voice, doesnTt she,�
said Paulo.

I hadnTt even noticed him sit down
next to me. oYeah, she does. You gotta
love some Ray Charles, man.�

The woman onstage ended Georgia
and said, oLetTs try some ~Tom Waits.� My
ear caught an ascending passage of curi-
ous chords.

oYou heard this one before?� I asked.

oNo, sand Paulo, obut 1s cool�

oTve always heard about Waits, but ITve
never checked him out.�

I was dying to ask what was up with
Greg, but didnTt know if he wanted to say
anything. It must have shown on my face,
because Paulo said, oLook, donTt worry
about what happened up there. ItTs not
your fault.� He looked behind him and
said, oGregTs had a few too many tonight.
I think heTs probably a little stoned, too.
Usually, heTs a really, really good player
and a really nice guy, but when he gets like
this, you canTt deal with him.� He waved
towards the bar. oI couldnTt get him to
say anything except ~HeyT just now. Best
thing to do is yust enjoy the music and let
him mope.�

oWhat, you known him for a long time?�

oNo, just seen him around at these
open mikes. Talked to him a few times.�

oYou ever see him like this before?�

oSeen him pissed off before, but never
seen him just walk offstage in the middle
of a song. Surprised the hell out of me.
Hey, donTt worry
about it. I talked to
the lady running
everything and

we'll get back up EO Lme @herlnd. Ine jericed tne cord

there a little later.�
We watched the
blonde play three

more old R&B songs

before she left. and stepped off the stage.

Three men in their

mid fifties joined the bassist and drummer
and quickly jumped into their first song.
The singer howled Born Under A Bad
Sign through the bar. He planted his feet
firmly and closed his eyes. A harpist
groaned low between lyrics and the singer
wiped the sweat from his face. Within the
space of three notes, his hand drew the
perspiration from wrinkles in his forehead
and stroked his graying beard.

The singer turned back to the crowd
and sang again. He extended an arm and
clenched his shaking fist. With his other
hand, he gripped the microphone. His
whole body began trembling as he guided
the band to the coda. The audience gave
him a few spare shards of applause. I took

Greg glared at us and threw his pick

out of his amplifier with a loud pop

FIC TON

AWARD -

Sipe ah

M I

21

oThen? teek tip. And out imtne

away from me, is George Clinton

advantage of the lull between songs and
turned to Paulo.

oDo you play for fun,� I asked, oor are
you professional?�

oT just jam around and play in bands
here and there. See, right now, ITm ina
band that plays, like, half folk, half funk.�

oOda mi.

oWhat?� Paulo yelled over the first few
notes of their next song.

o7 sare odd! mix, | yelled back. oFolk
and funk. Usually bands play, I donTt
know, either folk and rock or funk and
reggae.� Paulo laughed and nodded.

o'ThatTs exactly what I played all the
time back home. Funk and reggae. ThatTs
whatTs really popular in Brazil.�

oYeah? How long have you been in
America?�

oAbout four years. ITve been playing
this stuff for about two weeks now. This
guy in my band,
Ray, took me to the
Vegas Lounge, on
P street, and, man,

alvdieisee, sitting, like, Mitcem Beet Wovedit Tunis

what ITm going to
play from now on.�
For the first time,
I noticed the traces

and Stevie Ray Vaughan.� of accent that clung

to his words.
The band started Pride e Foy and
reminded me of something.

oWant to hear something funny?�

I asked.

oVea. wit?

oI have this recurring dream, okay? ITm
onstage, in some bar, playing. And ITm
just tearing it up. I mean, the band 1s tight,
the rhythmTs there, my voice sounds good,
and ITm soloing great. Then, I look up.
And out in the audience, sitting, like,
fifteen feet away from me, is George
Clinton and Stevie Ray Vaughan.� Paulo
exploded with laughter. oStonefaced.
Man, theyTre sitting like statues.�

oSo I finish my set, and the first thing
I do is go out to say hi to them. I walk up
to them, stick my hand out, and say, ~Nice
to meet you.T You know what they do?

Nothing. They just keep staring at me.

Finally, I just make like Tm smoothing
my hair, because itTs obvious neither one
is gonna shake it. Then, you know what
happens then?�

oNo, what? ITm dying to hear this.�
oStevie Ray starts shaking his head,
real slowly, like heTs feeling sorry for me.

Then George Clinton says, ~Nice try,
white boyT Then I wake up. What do you
think of that?

oT think youTre one guy in desperate
need of help, to tell the truth.� We sput-
tered and gasped and leaned on each
other as our laughter peaked and subsided.

We sat in silence as the singer left and
was replaced by a keyboard player. The
guitar player took the microphone and
blew through the last few songs of his set.
One song after another, he sang first with
his throat and then with his guitar. He
bent one note up and we all felt the tension
he created seep through our pores and
into our muscles.

For his last song, he said, heTd like to
play The Thrill Is Gone, and we cheered
his selection. The rat-a-tat of the drums
exploded like firecrackers and the rest of
the band jumped in. The guitarist stung
the crowd with a single note that quivered
like a nervous butterfly. His tone was
thick and rich as milk chocolate.

oThat guy 1s good,� I said. Paulo nod-
ded. They went for nearly ten minutes,
following the guitaristTs eyeball cues,
shifting rhythms, volume, tempo and still
showing no signs of wearing thin. The
keyboard player pulled lush swells of
gospel down around us, a thick layer of
pure sound that wrapped us comfortably
and filled our ears like warm bathwater.

oHey, man, letTs play sometime this...�
I stopped in mid-sentence when the guitar
player raised it to his lips and began pick-
ing furiously with his teeth. My jaw went
slack. oOh, shit!� I laughed. oYou believe
that, man?� He ripped and pulled at the
strings, squeezing every possible drop of
emotion he could from the battered wood
and he didnTt miss a note.

Paulo looked back at me and I could

tell he was thinking the same thing I was -"

that level is near impossible to reach.

oDamn.� Paulo shook his head. oHeTs
tearing it up!� When he let the instrument
drop back down, we joined the rest of the
bar in ecstatic applause.

The thrill vs gone...

The guitarist motioned for the band
to relax for the songTs close.

The thrill ts gone away.

Inch by inch, line by line,

You know you done me wrong...

the tempo crawled from the driving
force of an engine

.. Amd pou lt Oe SOTTy...

to the tragic sorrow of defeat.

... Someday.

The bar roared. The drummer flailed
about his cymbals, whipping up a torrent
of crashes. The guitarist rode the wave
with a cadenza of cascading notes, one
after another.

He was a magician. His hands began
closely together, empty, and as he pulled
them apart he revealed a scarf woven with
notes. When the scarf was complete, he
whipped it in front of the crowd with a
flourish and the drummerTs downbeat.

People focused their attention back
towards their drinks and the band broke
down their rig. I finished the question
I had begun to ask. oHey, do you want
to jam again later this week?�

Paulo took a drink, looked towards the
ceiling in thought, and then said, oI would,
but this weekTs not really good for me.�

oThatTs cool. Maybe next week.�

oThat sounds good. The thing 1s,�
Paulo said as he leaned back, omy wifeTs
kind of mad that I havenTt been spending
as much time with her. Hey, listen.� He
slapped my shoulder and chuckled, oNever
get married. Now, come on, weTre next.�

When Greg saw that I was stepping
on stage, he left the bar and sat right in
front of me. He made sure I saw him cross
his arms and cock a smile at me. I looked
at the rest of the bar, and everybody was
looking back at me. They were waiting for
me to do something, take charge.

ItTs one thing to play backup and just
take cues, keep the beat, and throw out a
few solos every now and then. ItTs a com-

pletely different situation when youTre the

man everybody looks to. Your voice is
on the microphone, booming from the
speakers and turning every corner the
joint has and every bit of nervous energy
1s as obvious as a zit. If you donTt show
the way, everybody wanders. The other
musicians will just shake their head and
wonder how much longer the amateurs
will keep coming. I knew all this, and my
other attempts at leading had fallen flat.
My hands felt like I had been holding
ice cubes for the past half hour.

I sang the first verse of a slow shuffle
too softly to be heard. I was intimidated
by the mic and unsure of what would be
too loud, so I turned inside. ThatTs not
what you do! I yelled to myself, and
became even more self conscious. In my
panic, I made the mistake of looking at
Greg, who seemed to enjoy every bit of
my embarrassment. Paulo simply looked
at me calmly and kept his bass steady. A
nice soft pillow to ride on and keep the
changes. I concentrated on the firmness
of the notes and calmed down. They gave
me a center and a place to return to when
I had lost my way. It traced a melody that
hung in the air and mingled with the
smoke. The rhythms pushed and tugged
and rubbed against each other. I forgot
about the mic and the audience and
hollered the words until they grated my
throat. My voice sparkled with dirt and
broken glass.

I leaned hard into each note, tugging
on the strings so harshly I could have
broken them. Each note snapped and bit
into the wood. Out in the crowd, the reg-
ulars swayed back and forth, clapping on
every other beat and singing. I blinked the
sweat out of my eyes. It ran down my face
and dripped from my nose. It made the
strings slick, and my fingers slid up and
down the frets.

Suddenly, I found that one note I had
been looking for, that took anyone listen-
ing and stung their ears. I slightly shook
it, milking it for all it had. That note had
been looking for the way out for a long
time, and now that it was free, I smiled,

licked my lips, and wailed the final lyric.

99
«what?

oYou made me look

like an asshole.»

«what did P

do tO you?

CTION

" a 2 """

iwas tummne | can t Delleve tins sty,

Make me look like some kind or

I would have loved to play all night,
but there were other people waiting their
turn. Paulo and I left and bought two
more beers at the bar. We drank and
laughed. I felt the alcohol mix with the
high from the stage when I was shoved
from behind and coughed my beer onto
the bar.

oWhat the hell?� I said. I turned
around and saw Greg fuming.

oFucking make me look like a god-
damn idiot!�

NNivat?

oYou made me look like an asshole!�

oWhat did I do to your�

oSure, you canTt play worth a damn for
me, but when you get up front, you start
showinT off anT shit!�

oMan, I donTt know what youTre
talking about.�

oPlaying like shit with me, making me
look bad. CanTt play
rhythm worth shit.
How the hell am
I supposed to solo

| thought. Trying to blame this on me? when you canTt

follow the changes,
ule

oDonTt be blam-
ing me, all right?�

show off? | got madder by the second. oPlaying like

shit on purpose.
You fucking deliberately made me look
stupid just to show me up. I know you.
PTve seen guys like you before.�

oPve seen guys like you too,� I said.
oAs the PA, its the guitar, it's the hand,
itTs not me.T CanTt handle the fact that they
fucked up, so they find some excuse.�

I was fuming. I canTt believe this guy,

I thought. Trying to blame this on me?
Make me look like some kind of show off?
I got madder by the second. oI didnTt make
you look stupid. You lost it all by yourself.�

Greg stared at me with swimming eyes.
I looked around. Each face in the bar was
staring at us. Half a dozen polo-shirted
preps snickered. I wondered what they
would tell their friends about the evening
they went slumming.

oWhy donTt you just go home, Greg,�
Paulo said and snapped the spell Greg
was under. He arced his eyes from me
io Paulo,

Greg leaned in so close to him their
noses almost touched and swung back to
me. The three of us planted our feet and
stayed put in this drug-addled high noon
standoff. I could see a map of red high-
ways in his eyes and smell his stale breath.

Greg smiled and swayed. He blinked,
and began laughing and spraying spittle in
PauloTs face. Giggling and mumbling, he
staggered over to his table, flipped the
clasps shut on the case, straightened his
slit, cual left.

best in show

ceramics
graphic design
illustration
metal design
painting
photography
printmaking
sculpture
bexrile design
wood design

multimedia

GALLERY

Uuisamianeatees 7. A NRRL A paces cisasaiasoi seaneceseanainiase se mates

STACKING PAGODA
Albert F. Crivelli |

26

MOHS Ni 1S3q -AY¥aTIVD |

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rst place

INCLUSION
Jamie Kirkpatr

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Stacy Wilkins
IMPORTANCE OF SELF
Kendra Brock
Secoma piace
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above left

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Jamie Kirk patric |
left

30

JAZZ FEST
POSTER 7 LOGO

Derek Cermak
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right

n= BOOE |S hic
TWIN OF THE WISE

Eric Stron|
Second place

below

|_ STAMINA, WILL AND

AN AMAZING BEFORE YOUR EYES ONLY SHOW OF STRENGTH AND

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WIT, BRAINS AND BRAWN. WATCH THE EXCITING

SAL Fie

BRAWL TO THE DEATH RINGSIDE TO CATCH ALL THE ACTION! |

HE REMSRLD KISS THROGES TBE GATES Ww BELIEVE & SPiLiaL SURPRISE QRAB B44

A COLLABORATIVE EPORT

MATL VER SITY

BENNY GREEN

SPYRO GYRA

EMERALD CITY

ALONG CAME A SPIDER
BOOK COVER

David Gould
merit award

above

MONKIE-ROO!
PACKAGE DESIGN

Luke Tuveinets
third place

left

CENTRAL SECURITY
GRAPHIC STANDARDS MANUAL

David Gould
Ben Miller
merit award

not shown

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ILLUSTRATION FOR ARTICLE,

oJOY OF DANGER�

Bryan Flynn
first place

MURK
Shane Smith
merit award

above left

THINK TANK
inevoy Van Meter
second place

above

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE
Wallace Lamb

thaird place

left

LLLUST RATION

GALLERY

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fest plac e

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Brad VWinter

Second place

above

TEA INFUSER

Janna Gregonis

third piace

left

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UNTITLED

Todd Boyd

Becomia piace

above

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Charlene Franc

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right

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Ada Tiy >

36

Tot Hie Ma We ed hee oh P84,

RHETORIC (JEFF)

Sally Lewis
third place

above left

AESTHETICS FOR
BIOTECHNOLOGY
(AUTUMN GOLD)

Ryan Griffis

merit award

left

RA Pa Y

4

Pt OA® ©

REN

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FAMILY PORTRAIT
Susan Young
second place

above

OUR ONLY CLAIM IS
AN EMPTY ONE

Mark Cooley
third place

far right

IN tiie COREE THOWSE
ON A WINTER DAY

Jennifer Legoett
first place

right

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHANE

Shane Simitn
first place

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44

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WZMB 91.3 FM

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RISTOPHER SALERNO

Derek Cernak

NONELCTION

SEGOND PEACE -

ROBIN SPRINGER

My grandmother lost her right eye in February, the winter | was eight
and my sister Molly had just turned six. Gramma and Grandpa were
driving north on a narrow, curvy road along Cayuga Lake to King
Ferry, on their way home from playing cards at Aunt Gloria and Uncle
BobTs house. A carload of partiers hurtled out of the darkness across

the double yellow line and hit them head-on.

Sleeping like the dead, like children do,
I never heard the phone ring when my
momTs sister, Aunt Gloria, called from the
emergency room in the middle of the night
to tell her about the accident. When I got
up in the morning, Mom wasnTt in the olive-
green kitchen sheTd painted. She should
have been leaning against the counter in
her bathrobe, sleepily drinking coffee out
of one of those brown mugs with white
glaze dripping down from the edge.

oMom? Mom!� I called and called,
searching for her. Our upstairs apartment
was laid out like a Pullman car. A small
kitchen and back porch anchored one end;
bathroom dining room, and bedroom
ranged along the length of a long hallway
to a large light living room in front. I found
her in the living room, silhouetted in the
weak morning light that shone through the
French doors that made up one wall, star-
ing down into the yard.

oGrandma and Grandpa were in a ter-
rible accident last night.� MomTs quiet,
calm voice scared me, I think, but I donTt

recall being surprised or amazed or unduly

upset. Phone calls were made, a plan was
devised. In a few days Mom drove Molly
and me two hours from our apartment in
Herkimer to GrandpaTs farm in King Ferry
to live. Dad would come to visit when
school let out.

GrandpaTs ribs were broken in the acci-
dent, but that was his only injury, so weTd
been in the big farmhouse only a few days
when Mom brought him home from the
hospital. He walked slowly and deliberately,
painfully, from the car to the house, bent
forward, arms held out slightly from his
sides, up the slippery slate sidewalk, home
to his chair by the window at the head of
the kitchen table. Mom and Aunt Gloria
hovered, trying to walk as slowly as he did,
wanting to take his arm, getting ahead and
turning back to wait.

Mornings he was up early, before
anyone else, always dressed in his green
Dickies pants, shirt tucked in and sleeves

rolled to the elbows. He never wore

slippers; he believed that if you could get

ght

Dwayne Wri

oOh, God love you,
honey, she said,

and held out her
fingers for us to
come close, but
there was no place
to touch, no place
to hug without
hurting her.

Sy

up and get dressed, you should wear your
shoes. Leaning his forearms on the chrome
table edge, he drank his instant Maxwell
House while his squat, silver etched toaster
and homemade marmalade kept him com-
pany. He looked out the window across
the back yard, watched silent and still as
the dim outlines of corncrib and saltblock
and galvanized water trough took shape in
the morning light. Afternoons he shuffled,
slowly and stiffly, out to the barn to check
on his cows, then out to greet the rural
route driver, who handed Grandpa the mail
through the window of his dusty battered
car and asked after everyone. Each day
Grandpa surveyed the farm and made
weather notes on his calendar. Icy, crystally
mounds of plowed-back snow melted,
disappeared really; on sunny days they
seemed to get smaller right before your
eyes. Pussy willows bloomed in ditches
and trees dressed up in their very best,
bright green budding finery as late winter
turned to spring and Grandpa healed.

My grandpa was tough, small and wiry;
in winter his weight went up to 135 pounds
when he wasnTt doing hard outside work.
He knew hard work and he knew injury.
Every month during the depths of the
Great Depression, without fail, he took my
momTs hand and they walked down the
road to Mr. EmmonsT, his mortgagorTs,
house to make the $10.00 payment on his
350 acres of upstate New York farmland.
A couple of years before I was born a car
passed too close to him while he drove his
tractor back to the barn after working all
day in a field. He swerved and the tractor
tipped over, pinning him to the ground;
he landed face down in a mud puddle. He
was so muddy and hurt his own brother,
who happened to be driving by and
stopped to help, didnTt recognize him.
That accident left him with a pin in his
hip and a slow, stooped walk. Later, when
his grandchildren heard the story, we
clamored and jumped, oPlease let us feel
it! Please, Grandpa!� HeTd chuckle and
stand, and swing his leg back and forth so
we could press our fingers against his hip
to feel the pin clicking, clicking, clicking.

My grandpa, so tough, so quiet, so
capable of silently, kindly, annihilating you
at rummy by laying down his entire hand
in one move, groaned.

The sprawling farmhouse was silent
and peaceful in the way that busy houses
normally filled with people are when the
people are gone; the silence had a barely
audible hum as if conversation was still
vibrating in the air. I heard him groan
from the next room and ran to stand fearful
in the doorway, looking at Grandpa sit
on the edge of his bed in his sleeveless
undershirt, right arm in the sleeve of his
shirt. I could see ridges of thick white
adhesive tape that held his ribs in place
under his thin undershirt. His left arm
waved slowly and awkwardly as he tried
to reach around behind him to hook his
hand into its sleeve. He was fragile. I went
quietly across to him, feet tapping on wood
floor, then muffled on braided rug, and
without speaking, held his shirt for him.

Tompkins County Hospital is directly
across Cayuga Lake from King Ferry. The
lake is only about a mile wide, but itTs a
forty-five mile drive to the hospital from
the farm, south on Route 348 from King
Ferry to Ithaca, and north up Route 96
on the hospital side. Built at the turn of the
century as a tuberculosis sanitarium, the
building was converted to a hospital in the
1940Ts. Nobody knew how long Grandma
would be there.

Molly, the Farrell kids (our cousins -"
Aunt GloriaTs kids), and I, six kids in all,
prepared for a siege in the hospital lobby.
We were too young to be left alone at home
in the evening during visiting hours. Dan
was the oldest, and he was only 11. Hospi-
tal regulations said no one under the
age of twelve could be allowed near the
patients, so each afternoon after school
Mom or Gloria came back to the farm to
take us to the hospital, and someone
picked up the Farrells at their house. We
packed books, coloring books and crayons,
scissors and paper, and set up camp in
the lobby. We took turns sitting in the

overstuffed wing chair or window seat, or
sprawling on worn beige carpet. We spent
hour upon hour waiting.

Lobby isnTt really the right word for

a public entrance that was about the size
of a living room and furnished with an
upholstered wing chair, lamp and side table,
big plant, and coat rack. Rain or cold burst
through the heavy glass outside doors with
hospital visitors, who hung up their coats
and stepped over us on their way to visit
the medical/surgical floor, Pediatrics, or
Maternity. In a closet-size room just inside
the main doors sat the hospital operator,
paging doctors (Dr. Mazza to recovery,

Dr. Mazza to recovery), connecting callers
to patient rooms, telling visitors patientsT
room numbers, announcing visiting hours
(Visiting hours will end in exactly 15 min-
utes, at 9:00. Visiting hours will end in
exactly 15 minutes, at 9:00).

Evening after evening, as early spring
darkness settled in, we sat in the dim lamp-
light of that cramped room while Mom and
Gloria and Grandpa sat with Gramma, doz-
ing, reading, waiting to go home.

I donTt know how long Gramma was in
the hospital; it was quite a while, but she
came home before school let out for the
summer in June. Molly and I got home
from school one day and Gramma was
home from the hospital, resting in the liv-
ing room. Her jaw was wired shut, her left
arm was encased in a white plaster cast,
and her right arm hung across her chest
in a sling. She had a big, square, glaringly
white gauze pad taped over her right eye.
We'd had no idea how badly she was hurt.
Molly and I stood in front of her, and Molly
said oHi, Gram,� in the tiniest, squeakiest
voice ITd ever heard. Gram opened her
eyes. oOh, God love you, honey,� she said,
and held out her fingers for us to come
close, but there was no place to touch, no
place to hug without hurting her.

Gramma wasnTt Gramma anymore.
The tall, vain, stubborn nursing supervisor
was gone. The nurse who placed an ampu-
tated finger in a friendTs coat pocket as a

joke, who exposed incompetence in the

hospital lab by sending apple juice to be
tested instead of urine, was gone. The
Gramma who wheeled into the driveway
every afternoon at 4:30 in her red Rambler,
every hair in place and starched, peaked,
gleaming white nurseTs cap sitting jauntily
on the top of her head, was gone. In her
place was a small, pain-wracked cripple
wearing a baggy white sweater draped
over her shoulders, who couldnTt even
comb her own hair. She shuffled around
the house, inching her way from one piece
of furniture to the next, clutching them to
keep her balance. Our rowdy, water fight
starting, gardening-cooking-canning
Gramma was gone. We lived with a frus-
trated, despairing stranger who ate thick,
green pea soup and milkshakes through
glass straws and who slept sitting up in an
enormous brown vinyl-covered recliner
that squatted in her breezy, gracious living
room like some horrid toad.

oT will not drink another milkshake! If
I ever look at pea soup again, Ill... All I
want 1s a hot dog. Call Dr. Mazza and tell
him to take these God damn wires off my
teeth Now! God damn it! Who left these
straws in the sink? SomeoneTs going to lose
a finger when these break!�

While Gramma was in the hospital,
and even after she came home, everything
about the accident was a secret only the
adults could know about. In the way that
children do, though, we pieced together
some of the facts. Mom and Dad, Gloria
and Uncle Bob would gather in the big
kitchen after supper, while Gram was
dozing and watching Tv in the living room,
to drink coffee and talk about her recovery.
One of us could invisibly slide in the
kitchen door and get a drink of water at
the sink, or invisibly slip around the cor-
ner to get a toy from a bushel basket kept
under the cabinet. The adults sometimes
were so intent on their conversation that
we heard a lot before we became visible
and were shooed outside or to bed oGo
on. You kids run along now.� We learned
that Gram was thrown through the wind-
shield of her car. Even though she was

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wearing her seatbelt, the crash was so huge
it tore loose the bolts that anchored her
seat to the floor. She broke her left arm,
right shoulder, and pelvis. The right side
of her face was crushed; her jaw was broken
and the doctors had to take her eye out.
Here was something concrete, an
explanation for the hideous bandage we
could see. We understood about broken
bones and wired jaws; those injuries didnTt
concern us too much. Broken bones heal
in casts and wires are the cast for a broken
jaw. Casts hold bones in place so they
can ~knitT themselves back together. Skin
gets flaky inside casts. Sometimes your
skin can itch so bad inside the cast you
have to stick a straw in there to scratch "
but remember to take the paper off first
so it doesnTt get stuck and come off the
straw. That happened to Gram once when
she was-desperate " "désperate! crazy!
oseus, I canTt stand this itching.a another
/ nue!� " to stop an itch she couleln't
ignore anymore. o
Muscles get weak inside casts when \
theyTre not being used, and sometimes \
there is healing to be done after the casts V

A

\
a

come off. My father had had several surg- | |
eries on an old knee injury, so we knew |
about casts, how weak muscles get in them,,
and making the muscles strong again. Dad\
had sat on the edge of our kitchen table \
many, many times with a weight strapped / -
to his ankle while we counted the times hé

lifted his foot to straighten his knee and/

~ \. rebuild his muscles. And now we watched

oeach day while my father ran Grarfima
through he her physical therapy. We didnTt
count fort her, t , though.

oGod damn you, Stanley! I canTt do
this! I wonTt do another one!�

oYes, you can, Iva. One more. Keep
going.�

Gramma perched on the top rung of
her kitchen step-stool with her right arm
lying across her lap. Suspended above her
in the dining room doorway was the weight
-lifting system my dad rigged up for her
physical therapy. He screwed a big eye-bolt
into the doorframe and hung a clothesline
pulley and white clothesline rope from it,
then tied a big black five-pound weight

disc on it. Three times a day, Gram sat

on the stool and tried to pull on the rope,
raise the weight, tried to loosen up her
stiff, useless shoulder, cried in rage and
pain. She hissed obscenities through her
clenched teeth. oJesus cHrist! This HURTS,
God DAMN you!� Dad laughed sadly and
said, oCome on, Iva. One more.�

We could deal with all that, all the
itching and yelling and special food. But
the gauze patch, and the sticky, thick liquid
that seeped out from under it and ran down
GrammaTs cheek was something else alto-
gether. And the way the white adhesive
tape started to take her skin off with it
when the bandage was changed. And the
weird, stretched look of her shiny, tight
skin under the Scotch tape she started
using. Mom and Gramma locked them-
selves in the bathroom for secret summits
while we ee ears to tre- oy to

St

would teh us understand what it canis on

to. J6se your eye. Was there a hole all the
way back to GramTs brain now? What was

/under that gauze pad?

I crept out of my bed, early in the
dark mornings, to find Gram sitting, all by
herself, in her chair at the kitchen table,
by the dim light on the back of the stove.
| She slurped from her cup of lukewarm
Maxwell House, wiping the liquid off her
\ face with wadded up tissues she pulled

\out of her sweater cuff.

\
*,
% @® @ @

9
%,

~~
When Molly was a little girl, she was a om
sturdy little Blend person with a Duteh� Boy
haircut. She wore gathered, highwaisted
dresses with big, square white collars
hanging like a bib in front and wings down
the back, dresses so unique to her that Aunt
Gloria calls ones like them oMolly dresses�
to this day. Molly wore scuffed red Buster
Brown shoes and shorts underneath her
dress, just in case she needed to hang
upside down on the Jungle Gym.

Molly got a bike the summer before
GrammaTs accident, on the birthday I got
the beautiful sleek blue bike that I named
Black Beauty. I was mad because it was my
birthday, not hers. MollyTs birthday was a

few days before Christmas. Gramma

told me not to worry, that it was still my
birthday, and didnTt I feel sorry for Molly
because her birthday always got overshad-

owed by Christmas? MollyTs bike was
second-hand, painted funky metalflake
olive green. It didnTt have one of those
sweet silver ~tring-tringT bells that rang
when you pushed a little lever with your
thumb. It had a bell like a foghorn or a
bullhorn screwed to the handlebars.
When she squeezed its black rubber bulb
it screamed oAaruugah! Aruugah!� Molly
hunched on that bike, pedaling hard and
fast up and down the slate sidewalk, out
to the road to check her tin can and string
phone to see if anyone had called. The
bike leaned, waiting patiently, against a tree
while Molly jumped rope and chanted

oCinderella, dressed in ena went

. Phen i was

time to ride again, ride ed of Grandpa

did she give? One; two...

to meet theT ~mailmanTs car. Molly zoomed

past whefe I lay reading in the grass,
blasting her bell, shouting, oCome on,
donTt you want to Do something?� Wings

of whieat- colored hair flapped out behind
her FT| AM doing something!� I hollered
backT at her. oAaruugah! Aaruugah!� The
battle cry of a fearless angel.

But Molly became fearful, too, afraid
to ride\ the big yellow school bus for an |
hout eath morning and afternoon, afraid / aa
eyen though our momTs cousin Louie was ~

/the driver. He saved the seat right behind

him every day j just for Molly, but she didnTt

want to climb into the-bus. SheTd always _ S "
been MomTs olap-sit girl� who couldnTt
start her day without a long cuddle to help
her gather her strength, but before, once
she hopped down she was ready to go.
Now the lap-sits got longer and longer;
she didnTt want to leave the farm, leave
Mom, leave Gramma and her fearsome
injuries. She cried all the way to school,
quietly, big fat tears running down her
cheeks. At school, during naptime, she
hated the way the rubber nap mats felt all
cold and clammy. Some days she couldnTt
rest because her eye was aching; she cried

and told her teacher she just wanted to gO

home. And after school let out for the
summer, there were more and more days
when her bike stayed in the woodshed,
more and more days with no singing or
jumping rope, more and more days she lay
on the living room floor and talked Grand-
pa into turning on his television for her.

In the middle of summer Gramma had
plastic surgery on her face to restore and
fill in her socket, and to lessen some of
the scars from the accident. She called the
surgeon a ~miracle worker, and he was;
except for the patch sheTd started wearing
instead of a gauze pad, GramTs face looked
normal. Her casts and sling and wires were
gone. It was time for her and my mom to
take the train to New York City for a quick
2- io) Het to Sa a doctor, an oculist, who

" a and black eye patches were going
to be replaced by a glass eye. While Mom _o

and Gramma were gone, Molly* s eye acheT

was so bad she couldnTt sleep. \
Grandma was hopeful and eneigized
when she got home from the city wearing
a temporary eye. Molly was shy and stayed
away, but the rest of us gathered around
her in the kitchen while she drank het
tepid coffee and told us stories of the) train
and the hotel and the doctorTs office) "On
the first afternoon, the oculist showed us
into his office. In the middle of the room
there was a table spread with a black velvet

cloth. There were dozens of different arti- T

ficial eyes heTs made lying-on it, displayed

ojust like rings ina 1 jewelry Stoney sie «nie

veled. She tried them on, one by one, until
they found one that fit fairly well to use
until her real one was ready. The oculist
examined her face and socket, and took
her medical history. The next day, he
poured a warm acrylic gel into GramTs
socket to make a mold. He looked deeply
into her other eye and sketched the size
and placement of her iris and tiny little
capillaries. He mixed paint to the exact
colors of her pupils, irises, and the whites
of her eyes. She had to go back to New
York after a while to pick up her new eye.
Gram had a new eye, but her eyelid

ty

oshe feet her grip. She needed Spey

wouldnTt close completely over it because
thereTd been so much damage. On quiet
afternoons while locusts buzzed like
circular saws, Gram napped on her recliner,
mouth open, snoring, with her right eye
half open. Molly stood in the living room
doorway, staring, refusing to creep by like
the rest of us did. We were sure Gram
could see out of that false eye and wanted
to test our theory. Mom and Gramma went
into the bathroom together every morning
and evening to clean the crusted goop off
GramTs stubby eyelashes and clean her eye.
They shut the door firmly behind them,
leaving us clustered outside, straining to
hear their conversation. We could hear the
water running, but we couldnTt imagine
what they were doing. Molly wouldnTt listen
with us, and her eye ache got even worse.
Mom was always the one who took
care of. Grani, who bathed.her when she

wasTso badly injured. One day; soon after
Gram came home from the hospital» we
heard screams of laughter " or tears? -
from the bathroom and ran to the oeee a
We stood, silent and frightened like deer
in headlights. Mom came out, shuddering
and wiping her face, and went to the
kitchen for Grandpa. Gramma was still

in the bathroom, laughing and laughing.
Gram had decided, casts and all, that she
wanted a real bath, not what she called a
~whore bathT -
front of a sink full of water -and when
Mom tried to lift her out of the water with-
out hurting her, or getting her cast wet,

washing off standing in

with his Dok Tibs, he alia t have He
strength to lift. The three of them splashed
and laughed and thudded around while
we waited, looking at each other, fearful O
and amazed. Finally Gramma crept out,
looking like a drowned rat, and assured
us that bread bags and rubber bands will
keep a cast dry. Mom stayed in the bath-
room for a long time.

But now Gram was self-sufficient
again, and one day she decided to clean
the eye herself. MollyTs eye had gotten 2
to the point where it ached all the time. I
think Gramma must have finally been well

SS)

enough to see our frightened, worried
faces, well enough to recognize MollyTs
pain for fear. Our brave Gramma was
trying to come back to us, determined to
show us she wasnTt horrified. This thing
didnTt scare her. Even if it did.

oYou kids can come on in here with
me,� she said. oITm going to clean my eye
and you can watch me.�

GrammaTs bathroom was the size of a
large closet " there was just enough room
for a bathtub, a toilet wedged next to it at
its faucet end, a sink facing it, and a hamper
by the door. All six of us kids crammed in
with her. One of the grandchildren hauled
the hamper over to the left of the sink and
sat on it, and one squeezed in between the

Molly reached into the cold toilet
water and grabbed the eye. She looked it
over carefully, turning it over and around.
Her voice was a question. oGram,� she
said. oI thought it would be round like a
marble. But itTs not. ItTs kind of flat and
curved.� The rest of us laughed and
laughed and laughed with tremendous
relief that started to feel like crying. We
passed the eye around for a long time.

MollyTs eye ache went away. It never
bothered her again. She spent the rest of
the summer jumping rope to the singsong
tune of oArtificial eye! Artificial eye!�
Gram eles a few water ae but she

oe ae

2 OTR Cz) Veta ammeter cee! | [iGRmacamies ogg ease eink: Dimas Cae eit) / caval a rani Sain com) JARRE ARE Cuties as

Fee,

sink and toilet. The rest of us lined up : folly the old one ina eae ring i

"tin,

on the edge of the bathtub. Gram looked� : ~

into the mirror, at her face ringed byT her
grandchildren, our eyes wide. We ~waited,
one closer and closer, starjfig into
GramTs reflection as she stared lpctels ait

us. Behind all of us, shiny, pink flamingos
slouched across the wallpaper. GrandpaTs
brown checked tattersall pajamas hung on
the back of the door. l {donTt know who was
more scared, her or us.

Gramma had a little tool she used to
take her eye out. Oné end was a tiny suction
cup, and the other end was a hook, like a
small cup hook. She could barely get her

hand up to her face because her shoulder
was still so stiff and ' we were crowding her
so much. With her left hand she pulled up
her eyelid and pushed the suction cup
onto her iris. Then she held the bottom
lid down and pulled the eye down out of
the socket. Her hand was\ under it, waiting
to catch it, but she fumbled, a little. I lost
track of the eye, just couldnT ts ~see where it
was. We all jostled each other, looking,
and suddenly, with a small plop ard, tinkle
of glass against enamel, there it lay, looking

up at us from the bottom of the toilet. We

were aghast. Our faces practically touched
the water as we pushed against each other
in dead silence to get a closer look.

56

ha ne Smith

A HOMELESS MAN OBSERVED

CRISTIAN SKINNER

Pour the milick out of 2 found thermos.

Mold and scum swirl into the river, &

float in a narrow snake current.
Sandwashed

Handwashed and doesnTt leak

after holding mud and mold for years,

it floated out of a saturated riverbank

- It keeps no history, no future -

- you keep no history, no future -

Leave this river, Sometimes :

walking down tree paths

roading along pavement or gravel

and thirstydrink water

and hotdrink water We'll rush

and sweatdrink water. to our meetings

Find dryer steps, with desires

walk to keep debts with with myths of purpose
no one. with a paper maché god.

While some want to,

Some donTt.

But they all follow the shadow of their need
through a dim misty night.

When you meet him, say hello;
| (he mouths back the greeting
| from the grey water.)

Exchange adieus

before you fill a found thermos.

o

_". .
nee i

CHRISTOPHER ENGLISH (CE

Sandstone Beige. Not too different from Desert Mist, but a true

expert could spot the difference. He liked the way it complemented
the interior of the Town Car. Leather only, no cloth. Leather made
the car seem finished, the visual effect far outweighed the subtle

discomfort of a seat that was too hot in summer, and too cold in
The car made him feel like less of a

winter. The Executive was his baby, and like a proud parent, he 7
salesman. It had a way of wrapping the

knew how to brag about her. oYes sir, thatTs a 4.6 liter V-8 with a customer into a state of cooperation. No

4-speed automatic transmission. Its power is complemented by the bait and switch tactics needed here. Show

the full monty. Drop the curtain to door
smoothness of our long and short arm front suspension and four- |
number three and deliver the goods.

bar-link rear suspension. We have selectable effort power steering, Lincoln customers were a whole breed
so you can choose the amount of feel you like in the wheel, but peee Nese eer nor te Flew inane
dick lot lookers. They knew they wanted a

thatTs only the ground floor of the comfort built into this car. We

Town Car, the hard part was settling on a

feature automatic climate control so you can adjust the temperature color. Therein lies the difficulty. That color
needs to be whatTs on the lot. When there

accurately. No more experimenting with fan speeds and funny PA er lel oco cee

knobs. We have twin comfort seats so you and the Mrs. can ride in and it happened to be orange, then that

luxury, and we didnTt forget the rear passengers either. Rear seat day, for that customer, orange is the best
oo thing going. You could be unique and have
ventilation ducts provide optimal comfort for all. We know that |
the first orange Town Car in town, or you
comfort is the key, so wait till you feel the rich texture of this fine could be buying one of those hard-to-find
sandstone beige leather interior....� ee
year. Either way, it came easy to him. The
timing was impeccable.

~The EagleT roosts high above the lot
waiting for the right moment. He sees the vultures, swooping and gnawing at every scrap
in the yard. Impatient beasts, still young, talent-less. ~The EagleT is art in motion. He
Z waits for the Mousies to settle down. You see, when they first get on the playing field
a theyTre intimidated, frightened, and edgy. The smallest glint of patent leather sends them
" scurrying away. So he waits, patiently. Little Mousies start to get comfortable when they
donTt see any swooping. Look at the Mousie, all stern and scholarly. Watch how he
shakes his head. There, there, its only sticker shock Mr. Mousie. Flelll, a soda cost 35

: cents. Now the Mousie is calm, almost ready. Mousie wants to look inside the shiny new

car. Well, well. Here comes Mr. Eagle with the shiny new key. See how happy Mr. Mousie

is. Mr. Eagle eats Mr. Mousie. Perfect timing.

The other salesmen would call him eagle during
sales meetings and he would smile that smile,
nodding toward the dry-erase board. There he
was, right on top. John Aurora - 20. This was the
14th month in a row that he posted 20 sales, and
there were three days left in the month. He sipped
his coffee, nodded his head, and graciously raised
his left hand in an attempt to humbly wave off the
applause. Today, he would hit 21.

lt was about 10:30 when the Mousie arrived.
Randolph ParhamTs T92 Town Car had trade-in
written all over it. He drove slowly across the
asphalt, so slow that you could hear the sound of
each pebble as it rolled off the tires and back on
the lot. It was the kind of sound cornmeal makes
when itTs dropped in the deep fryer. oThis oneTs
mine,� Aurora began as he methodically lit the end
of his Winston. oOkay boys, sit back and watch
me chalk up number 21.� Mr. Parham had eased
out of the front seat, and his Lincoln sat idling

quietly. His first steps showed his age. The forward

motion of his legs barely propelled one foot in front of the other, his walk was careful and
deliberate, but he refused to use a cane. He sported the typical summer attire of a retiree:
Plaid shorts, white T-shirt, brown loafers, and dark blue socks. This incredible lack of
taste did not bleed over into his choice of cars. He had settled in front of the Lincoln Town
Car Executive, lvory Pearlescent with the Sandstone Beige leather interior. John gave him
time to reach the driverTs side door before he butted the cigarette. Fluidly one hand
plunged into his left front pocket while the other swung to the right rear. The left retrieved
the Binnaca, the right a plastic comb. Ksss Kssss followed by quick run through the hair
and he was off to fetch the quarry. He reached over to the key cabinet and quickly
grabbed the proper keys. The tag read o98-0666, Town Car, White, L. Sandstone Beige.�

This was the right one, the set of keys that would lead to sale number 21.

Rebekah Phillips

Aurora headed across the lot with total
confidence. oGood Morning Sir! Welcome
to Honesty Ford-Lincoln-Mercury. My
name ts John Aurora,� he said as he
stretched out his right hand and took an
extra step toward Mr. Parham. This step is
the first part of AuroraTs battle plan. He
invades the personal space, makes you
feel uncomfortable and establishes that
the whole lot is his territory. This makes
the Mousies nervous, but just when they
get ready to move away, Aurora steps
back. He gets off on watching the tension
come and go out of the MousiesT faces.
ItTs almost orgasmic.

Mr. Parham went the way of most
Mousies. He saw the dazzling smile, the
fas @f tle Rolex, the $100 shirt, $200
slacks, $400 shoes and let the handsome
young man take over. JohnTs thoughts
were swimming, oThis guyTs gonna lay
down and let me fuck him.�

He gave the basic five point walk-
around. Starting under the hood he went
through his routine effortlessly. oLight-
weight aluminum alloy, break-away
motor-mounts, front end crumple
zones...� rolled off his tongue as he went
from the engine to the passenger side to
the trunk to the driver side and ended by
putting Mr. Parham behind the wheel.

FIG TLON

TAHIR D PLAGE |

60

oWell Mr. Parham, tell me, is there anything that you want on a car
that you havenTt seen on this one?�

oNo Sir, it a mighty fine automobile. SheTs right clean.�

oSo what your saying Is that this car meets all of your wants and
needs in an automobile?�

oOh yes, oh yes, | donTt suppose you could fit too much else on here!�

oSo, if we can agree on terms, youTre ready to take this car home
today, arent you Mr. Parham?�

oWell, | like it fine, but my wife needs to approve.�

oOkay then, why donTt you start the car and weTll drive on out and
show it to her.�

The car ride over was filled with the normal chit-chat. Mr.
Parham talked about buying his first Lincoln in 1971 and how
much his wife loved it. They drove through the business district,
and headed off on oOld 33.� The road narrowed and the blue sky
was replaced by a canopy of interlacing trees. John glanced over
at the odometer wondering just how far they would be going.
Test drives could be agony. He stared forward, nodding at the
appropriate places and offering an ois that right� from time to
time. They must of drove for another fifteen minutes like that,
John staring, and Mr. Parham blabbering. The monotony had
grown so great that John rejoiced as they started to slow down
and turn in on a side road. The dirt was well marked by a set of
tracks right down the middle. If you were met by a car coming
from the other direction, someone would have to back up and
let the other pass. There was no curb to pull over on. The creek
had moved up years ago, and turned this area into a mini-swamp.
They cruised down the path and John stared out the side and
into the woods. It seemed so dark, so black. It was an awful
contrast to the Ivory Pearlescent, and the green-brackish water
clashed with the Sandstone Beige. John despised the country.

It made him feel isolated and vulnerable. Not like the asphalt,
where he was lord.

John turned back to the front as Mr. Parham applied the
brake. oWeTre here,� he said as he cut the engine and opened the
door. John swallowed hard. What they were parked in front of
was no secluded country farmhouse. There was no front porch
swing with a table and a pitcher of ice tea. There were no dogs
in the yard, no flower beds, no typical country decorations. John

was staring at a grave.

There was a mound of red clay that rose about a foot and a
half higher than the rest. Rising from the mound, slightly tilted
to the right so that all of the angles were wrong, was a hand-
made wooden cross. Assorted plastic flowers were scattered
about the bottom. Their colors were lifeless. Unnatural blues,
reds and greens that stood out against the ruddy mound.

Mr. Parham was already at the mound before John could
gather himself. oWhat the hell is going on here,� he thought as
he opened the passenger door. He was barely to his feet when
Mr. Parham called out. oMr. Aurora, | want you to meet my
wife. Marguerite, this is Mr. John Aurora, Mr. Aurora, my wife
Marguerite.� John stood with one foot still in the car and the
open door between him and the mound. oSay hello John,� Mr.
Parham turned again, oSay hello John!�

oHuh-Hello Mrs. Parham.�

oWell John, you two have a lot to talk about, so ITm gonna sit
my old bones down in the car and let you work out the details.�

Mr. Parham turned back toward the car, oYes dear, | love you
too.� He began that slow walk back to the car and John just
stared. One foot barely past the other, and John just stared.
Mr. Parham, 75 years old, was walking away from the grave of
his dead wife one step after excruciatingly slow step, and all John
could do was stare. Mr. Parham encourage, oCome on now son,
she wonTt bite.� His words snapped John back to reality as Mr.
Parham opened the driver door.

John closed the door and headed toward the mound. The
short space of ten yards seemed to stretch into a hundred. He
could feel the stickiness of the swamp all over him, could see
the shimmer-waves of heat that rose from the clay. He was
suddenly aware of the sounds around him. No cars, no people.

Just the small, quiet voice of the crickets, and the pounding of
his own heart. The humidity started to fog the outside of his
Ray-Bans as he felt the soft earth sliding under his feet. A trickle

of sweat started at his hairline, and tickled its way to his collar.

oTalk to her John, sheTs the Boss.�

oThis is fucking crazy,� he thought as he reached the mound. John glanced
back over his shoulder to see Mr. Parham taking a seat behind the wheel.
Mr. Parham nodded and smiled, mouthing the words again.

oTalk to her John. Just talk to the dead bitch, get back in the car, and
take this guy back to the lot.� :

oHello, Mrs. Parham. My names John Aurora.� He heard the car door :
close and the ignition start. Twirling around he heard the whirl of the air

conditioning as Mr. Parham motioned for him to continue.

oOkay lady...your kook of a husband is starting to weird me out, so ITm
gonna stand here and pretend to talk to you until heTs ready to sign a check.�
John became aware of the noise of the crickets, louder, faster.

LOUDER
FASTER

THIRD

CricketcrickitcrickitcrickitCRICKITCRICKITCRICKIT! The sound
was flooding his ears, and he could feel his heart keeping up with
the tempo. His knees began to give, he saw the trees spin, and
felt the muddy ground sliding underneath his feet. The trickle of
sweat turned to ice as his vision began to fade in and out. The
strobe effect was dizzying to the point that he reached for some
support. His knees hit the clay and he felt his left hand clutch the
ragged wood of the cross. Silence. The earth stopped spinning,
the crickets ceased their song, and his heart held still. Through
the trees the leaves shimmered, and the wind whispered ono.�

John jumped to his feet. He glanced down at the red clay
smear across his trousers and turned toward the car. He had that
anxious feeling children get as they turn off the light switch and
spring to the bed. ~GettothecargettothecarT his mind repeated
until he felt the comfort of the leather Sandstone Beige.

The car ride home was silent. John kept his eyes closed for the
first five minutes. Waiting for civilization to poke its head through
the curtain of trees. Certainly, the heat had gotten to him. All he
needed was a brief rest and perhaps a glass of water.

By the time his wingtips hit the asphalt, John had gathered his
wits. He was on home turf again. He had had some kind of heat
spell, thatTs all. Forget the rest, forget the water. The only thing
Aurora needed was to post sale number twenty-one. oSo Mr.

Parham, get your checkbook out and weTll square the deal.�

oIs that what my wife wanted?�

oYes Sir, we squared away all of the facts and figures.
You deserve a car like this.�
John Aurora posted sale number 21 that day. He
devoured his Mousie, and popped full sticker price.

oThe Eagle has landed,� the other guys hooted as the
Ivory Pearlescent Lincoln Town Car, Executive Series,
with Sandstone Beige leather interior scooted off the lot.

Aurora treated the buzzards to a round at the Hilton. oGo ahead boys, top shelf
liquor tonight.� The only thing he liked as much as making money was proving he didnTt
need it. No kids to feed, no wife to clothe. Just a bunch of assholes who deify him on
tine lof, ama euirse lalim at home.

Two SeagramTs seven and sevens later and Aurora was on the way home. The slight

buzz was enough to make him focus on the yellow line. oYouTre fine John, youTre fine just

6 focus on the road.� He reached over, cut the radio off, and reached for his pack of

S Winstons. A slight tickle eased across his fingers.

: John looked over at the tiny cricket whoTd come to rest on the Winstons. Cricket,

2 cricket. He snatched it in his right hand, and brought his fist over to rest on the wheel.

One touch of the auto-down driverTs side window. Out it went. He put the window

62

back up and reached for his smokes again. A slight tickle eased
across his fingers. Cricket, cricket. oWhat the fuck...� John turned
his head to see the second cricket perched on the seat. One
touch of the auto-down driverTs side window and out it went.

John reached for the Winstons again. A slight cool feeling from

the plastic greeted his fingers. He pulled a smoke and reached
for the lighter in the ashtray. Cricket, cricket.

John looked down to find the ashtray filled with nearly a
dozen crickets. oWhat the fuck! Is this somebodyTs idea of a
joke!� He was yelling as he tried frantically to grab the pests.
oCome here you fuckers! Die! Dre!�

The horn caught JohnTs attention. He looked up in time to see
the headlights, in time to see how far over the yellow line he had
gone. Swerving hard to the right, adjusting, and pulling back left,
he avoided the car and the ditch. His heart was pounding as he
glanced in the rearview mirror, then it ceased all together.
Someone was sitting in the back seat.

John slammed the brakes, threw the car in park, and hopped

i 3 wy yy Yj WY j Yy Yj Woy, : Y ty) y Vj yy Yy Hy Yj ; Y yy y WY YH
out as fast as the seatbelt would allow. There was no one there a > , 7 fF Zz

Just the sound of crickets. =
At home, John settled down with a bottle of Scotch. No televi- Oo
sion, no radio, just a bottle of Scotch. He stared down at the red
clay stain on his knees, and smiled at himself. Some kind of heat
stroke, thatTs all. ThatTs when he noticed the cricket. It crept

across the living room floor and paused in front of his easy chair.

Cricketcricketcricket. The noise began to get a little louder as
John stared down at it.

CRICKETCRICK EPTEeRiI�,�C KE #.
oShut the fuck up,� he shouted, tossing his empty glass at the
floor. The cricket leapt away, and John pounced to his feet in
pursuit. CRICKET, leap. CRICKET, leap. As soon as John would
get close, the cricket jumped further away. The chirping called
to him. Like Pinocchio caught In a lie. He dove toward the foul
insect, clasping its wriggling body in his hands. oI got you now
you son-of-a-bitch,� he laughed, laying face down in the carpet.

Inches from his nose, smeared across the floor, were tracks of

red clay.

John scrambled to his feet, and felt the ice on his neck. The
cricket sang in his hand, piercing his eardrums. He felt the
warmth of his own blood trickling out of his ear.

oI told you no.�

CTI ON

1a

John turned in time to see the hand that grasped his throat.
He felt the cold touch of the leathery skin, and smelled the rot
mixing with his own bowels. The flesh was horrid, but vaguely

familiar. A leathery tan, not quite Desert Mist. More of a

Dp :

Sandstone Beige.

a

MARY CARROLL-HACKETT

His hands were phantoms. Across the computer, across the sky he loved her. A shadow from the past, he
knew, remembered, what she liked, where to touch, what to say.

Back in the time when the hands were real there had been too many obstacles. Situations, people. So she
had backed away, finding safety in the arms of an unencumbered man. A man with no wife. But still, he, the

first he, would never go away. Like a thief in the night, she thought. How trite. He came unbidden into her

dreams and twisting her, turning her in the sheets, stayed locked beneath the thump of her heart.

Kisses lay between them now on the screen, unspoken unspeakable acts blinking at her until each
movement of the cursor was a seduction, slow beckoning pull into the heat. Into that place that only m
he could take her.

Away from the computer, their lives went on. His wife she had met once. Lovely Lynda. Talented and
funny, Lynda made him the perfect mate. Tall and dark, Lynda had been so at ease, shaking her hand and
touching his arm lightly when she laughed as he stuttered out the introduction. From the club... we met
at the club. Lynda had smiled genuinely. Nice. So nice to meet you. After the affair, when she had turned

away from him, he had chosen well. Staying with Lynda. She went on too. Mom and friend and lover. 4

Suburban safety.

oYou've got mail.� The computerized voice shivered through her. Thigh muscles stringy and tense. Heart
strangely fluttered. Click. Windows quivered open beneath her hand.

oNever seek to tell thy love, Love that can never be told; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly.�
The poetry of William Blake followed by *sigh* and she began to cry.

T his 1s sick. : �"�

And still he fed her. Bodies never touching. The miles and miles so real between them faded into the soft
blue glow as she climbed from the safety of the bed where the new one slept and booting up, she sought him. «

Read to me. She whispered and he did. Wordsworth and Longfellow. Coleridge. oO! The one Life within
us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like Power in eht.

Methinks it should have been impossible not to Love...� "s : whe

For months she stayed offline, computer staring blankly from the desk. Sometimes, she thought she saw
his face, ghost in the machine. Still, she had pra and work. Circumspect, sex twice a week. And sometimes,
she cried in the shower for no reason.

This has to stop. ItTs not okay. :

Shhh. Remember how I used to touch you? Your body... ah, I remember the sweet smell of your skin.

Stop. What about Lynda? I know you love her. The keyboard rattled with accusations, invented defense. A
You dwell within me, he answered.
Dwell. ThatTs why she loved him. He used words like dwell. Not words like mortgage and dog food. He é
knew Blake and loved A Midsummer NightTs Dream. He knew her: 7 5 ~

This has to stop. Now. She was emphatic. And like before when she had told him no, when she had said
she could not be the other woman, he listened. He listened and respected her wishes.
oYou have no new mail.� Relieved, she surfed or looked up North Carolina facts for kidsT projects or
e-mailed her brother away at school. But sometimes, she didnTt check the e-mail for days. And sometimes, wy

she cried in the shower for no reason. |

Rebecca Cernak

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Trevor Van Meter

WILLIAM STACEY COCHRAN

| here are places where Harvard Inkblot believes

he is real. Places where he saunters clean
sidewalks through parks of freshly mown grass.
Places where language is completely efficient and
understood with total clarity. Places where the sky is
so blue he can taste it. And the occasional pillow of

lazily floating cloud allays worry and doubt like a

motherTs soft lullaby or whisper of quiet confidence.
These are the places Harvard Inkblot ts real.

A fountain sprays cool water in an

ellipse, which dazzles his eyes. The

water is as pure as new life. And

HarvardTs been known to sit and

gaze at the fountain, by the freshly

mown grass, where the sidewalks

are clean, where the sky is azure,

where clouds can lull one to j
sleep, where he himself,

Harvard Inkblot, is real, for

hours upon hours. as

It is a kind of utopia, this
place, where he is real. Where
lovers picnic on soft blankets
laid even more softly on the
freshly mown grass. Where
there are birds and squirrels
that sing and chatter in bliss and
harmony with one another. Where
the occasional horse carriage carries
other lovers around the clean side-
walks, the freshly mown grass, the
fountain, the park.

He is an innocent young man " Harvard.
He believes the world is essentially good.

He believes in people and the common good of
humanity to do what is right. He believes in sincerity and

love. He believes that as long as he does what 1s right - what he
feels in his heart to be the right thing, the judicious thing - that it
will all work out in the end. HeTs a sort of young romantic type,
Harvard Inkblot, this person who is real, who sits and gazes at
fountains, in clean parks, where lovers delight in spring sunshine,
and freshly mown grass.

He works at SimTs Dry Cleaning and Laundromat on West
135th where he tags and bags customersT dirty linens. People are
friendly to him. Some of the customers know him by name. They
smile pleasantly to him and make polite conversation, speaking
of good weather or an unusually adept Yankee pitching staff. He
smiles engagingly, talks about the latest film heTs taken in at the
multiplex, signs and gives the customers their receipts, and loads

the linens into a large hamper with wheels.

68

His manager is a youngish,
tactful, type whom lets Harvard
work overtime when he needs

the money and gives him days
off when he needs rest, or
simply wants to walk around
the park and gaze at the
fountains or the clear azure
sky or clouds or horses or
freshly mown grass. His
managerTs name is David
Sneeze but everyone calls him
Dave. HeTs a youngish, tactful
type whom everyone likes and
thinks amiable thoughts about.
He wears Old Spice cologne, goes
to a club named The Bawdy on
Friday nights, and talks politely to the
Trevor Van Meter young ladies there, some of whom are
impressed at the fact that heTs the manager
of SimTs Dry Cleaning and Laundromat at such
a young age, and want to go home with him and
have coital relations with him. Dave demurs their offers
many times, promising to call them if they'll give him their phone
numbers, and if they do in fact give him their phone numbers he
call them on like Tuesday afternoons around five thirty and asks
them if they would like to go to church with him or maybe take in
a movie at the multiplex or come by SimTs Dry Cleaning and
Laundromat for a personal tour or walk together in the park where
thereTs a fountain and horses and squirrels and birds and joggers
who enjoy good health and never smoke cigarettes nor partake
alcohol unless itTs for medicinal purposes.

Harvard Inkblot lives in a one bedroom Morningside Heights
apartment where he owns no television but does possess a modest
library of nearly two thousand publications and casually studies
modern art and critical theory, differential calculus and theoretical
physics, because Harvard enjoys abstruse books, but which are
easy for him, Harvard Inkblot, to understand because he, Harvard
Inkblot, finds a certain pleasure in books that are esoteric and
recondite and understood by like less than 100 people in the
worldTs copiously numbered but not particularly well-read popula-
tion. Currently on his night stand are works by Mandelbrot,
Maxwell, and the warm and fuzzy Self-Organization in
Nonequilibrium Systems: From Dissipative Structures to Order
Through Fluctuations by the recondite and witty Ilya Prigogine.'

Harvard is an artiste, a lover of knowledge, and fashions himself

1 co-written with Nicolis, G. 1977. New York: Wiley. And was accordingly the

work for which Prigogine won the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1977.

a member of the avant-garde. He wears berets and a goatee and
enjoys the fine art of the MetropolitanMuseum and the exquisite
drama of the Shubert or Royale when heTs not reading recondite
literature or gabbing about Chirico or Carra or walking the clean
sidewalks in the park where thereTs a fountain and horses with
carriages and lovers on blankets and dogs that catch frisbees on
the freshly mown grass.

Although he is real in this sort of utopian place where language
is perfectly understood and always interpreted with 100% efficiency,
Harvard has never been married, but zs seriously in love, L-0-v-E,
love with a young Columbia dramaturge named Mary Anne Moore,
though Mary Anne considers Harvard ~the best kind of friendT and
enjoys his company in a sort of Platonic, non-coital way which 1s
fine by Harvard who never really has sexual urges anyway because
he seeks only friendship from his relationships in this utopian hke
place where language is 100% efficient and clear all the time and
there are never misunderstandings, and besides he spends so much
time at the Laundromat and park that any coitally involved relation-
ship would alter his schedule so much it might make the customers,
whose clothes he bags and tags, a little annoyed and they might
seek other Laundromats and he might not get as much time as he
would like to walk on the clean sidewalks in the park where there is
a fountain and horses and squirrels and singing birds and a forever
clear blue sky and freshly mown grass.

The single attribute that Harvard admires most of Miss Mary
Anne Moore of Columbia University is her profundity. She 1s
honest and direct and speaks in a voice that passes many people
by, and she has beautiful flowing red hair that drifts down past her
shoulders. She is 5' 11" tall and weighs 120 pounds and has a
34c-24-34 figure that would make other women at The Bawdy
jealous if she ever went there but she doesnTt because she finds
such places meretricious and seedy and would rather spend time in
the library musing over the recondite philosophies of Wittgenstein
or Rousseau for fun and enjoyment because their wits are so
sophisticated and erudite and wry and sheTs really fond of wry,
erudite, and sophisticated people which is why she hangs out with
Harvard because how could anyone with a name like Harvard
Inkblot not be sophisticated and erudite and wry and witty, as
sheTs wont to say.

She likes to take off her clothes at HarvardTs apartment and
they'll sit together with the window shades open and their clothes
on the floor and talk about Quintilian or Cicero because she feels
more free when sheTs naked and she trusts Harvard not to take
advantage of their Platonic relationship which he would never do
although he does obtain an erection at seeing her 34c-24-34 body
naked with her flowing red hair lying softly over her shoulders and
atop her faintly freckled 34c breasts which are soft and round and

have strawberry colored nipples the size of his palm. Miss Mary

Anne Moore of Columbia University is the only woman Harvard
Inkblot has ever known whose pubic hair is red and soft and
shaped in a perfect triangle, which descends to the anterior portion
of her labia and shimmers in the warm sunlight of HarvardTs
Morningside Heights apartment when the windows are open and
they can talk freely of Bahktinian dialogism or Cartesian duality.

The curious thing about Miss Mary Anne Moore of Columbia
University who is a dramaturge in this utopian like world where
language is 100% efficient and always interpreted with total clarity
and understanding is that she does not believe herself real. Harvard
has often had lengthy discussions with her about this, for it is his
belief that she is real and that he, too, is real.

Their discussions, usually performed naked in the warm
sunlight of HarvardTs Morningside Heights apartment, center
around the fact that she, Miss Mary Anne Moore, of whose green
eyes no one else possesses a near likeness nor comparable beauty,
thinks herself a character in a story written by a youthfully eager,
contrapuntally deft, and purportedly egotistical undergraduate
fiction writer of one medium-sized university of mediocre academic
reputation in eastern North Carolina. There are times when their
discussions verge on passion and vehemence and she is often wont
to point out that the world in which she and her contravening
companion, Harvard Inkblot, exist could only be written. Harvard
impugns her belief in the question as to their corporeality by asking
how could he walk through the park whose sidewalks are clean and

whose grass 1s freshly mown and whose carriage horsesT hooves heTs

ON

- FIC

70

distinctly heard clippity-clopping along if he were only a written
entity and besides even if he were a written entity " oWhich I do not
for one minute believe� " why would he be a written entity created
by an undergraduate fiction writer from a university of medvocre
academic reputation because even if his ~godT (and he uses the term
rather disparagingly with Miss Mary Anne Moore) were a writer-of-
fiction he would most certainly be a ~godT whose sat and Act scores
alone would have gotten him into a college with an élite reputation
like an Amherst, Swarthmore, Brown, or Duke at the very, very least.

oSupposing our ~godT is a literary type,� Harvard says, o(which
might give some rationale as to your allusion-esque name) why
would he not be from a superior academic institution... and why
must he be an undergraduate writer at all? Why not a Pulitzer
winner or Breadloaf winner at the very, very least?�

oBecause our world 1s satiricalT Mary Anne demurs. oItTs a
cynical world we live in, where human life has lost its value...�

oFrom overpopulation,� Harvard avers.

oWhere human life has lost its value and seemingly normal
people shoot each other ~for funT " for fun " like riding a roller
coaster or speeding or something.�

oMy dad used to take me to an amusement park that had this
huge roller coaster.�

oWhere people find entertainment in things that are injurious
and deleterious to them.�

oIt had this one spiral loop that made me lose my stomach
every time.�

oAnd bloodshed 1s glorified via a piece of furniture as alive as
any brother or sister living in our households.�

oT remember this one time after a lunch of like KFC and corn
dogs and cotton candy and an orange sherbet sundae...�

oIt is lurid and gruesome and horrible and we watch it like it
has no effect on us, or donTt really care if it does.�

oTalk about sick.� Harvard grimaces at the memory.

oAnd then slowly over thirty, forty, fifty years we accept it. We
look around at each other and say, ~What kind of world are we
living in " what kind of world are we raising our kids in?�

oT didnTt know the human body could expel so much at one time.�

oAnd what can you do, really? I mean, not that ITm a pessimist,
but itTs only gonna get worse.�

oMy dad said it was probably the cotton candy.�

oWhat with the guns and a slap-on-the-wrist judicial system,

which if you ask me, is a bit like a circus act.�

oT think it was a lot of things, not just the food.�

oOr a carnival fun house.�

oHe was just overwhelmed with how sick ITd gotten and felt he
had to blame something.�

oSomething disturbing and hideous about it " and yet enter-
taining, too, all at the same time.�

oT spent like twenty-four hours on Pepto-Bismol, flushing my
body with water.�

oKind of like life.�

o*Nauseous.�

Harvard is certain that his father must have known it was a lot
of things that made him sick, but that it was easier to like point at
one thing and say: oThat is it " thatTs what it was. It was the cotton
candyTs fault.� It is always easier to blame one thing. Harvard thinks.

oAnd as long as one group keeps pointing at the other group
saying, ~ItTs your fault; itTs your fault? nothingTs going to get fixed.�

Harvard is listening to Mary Anne in a vague, sort of dis-
tracted way.

oItTs like you got an old building thatTs got leaky johns and
faulty wiring and ceilings that are like falling in. And everybody
thatTs in charge of one aspect of the repairs keeps saying itTs the
other personTs fault " all the while the buildingTs ceilings keep
getting worse and the plumbingTs like overflowing and the lightTs
flickering on and off and everybodyTs standing around pointing the
finger at the other person while the building that theyTre standing
im 1s crumbling around them " on top of them " and in need of
serious repairs because time sort of works that way on things. But
everyone is like pointing at the other person or if they actually stop
pointing for a minute itTs only to look outside at the beautiful
weather. They'll say, ~Look how sunny it isT Or, ~What a nice neigh-
borhood our building is in? Which takes their minds off of the fact
that the building that theyTre standing in is like getting worse and
worse and the ceilingTs crumbling and the johnTs overflowing and
pipes are bursting and the frame of the house is sort of tilting "�

oThe economy is like the weather,� Harvard says.

VV iat

oYou said that if people even stop pointing at the each other, itTs
to look outside and say, ~What nice weather weTre havingT The
weather is our economy.�

oOr gas prices or no wars or whatever. But the point is "�

oThat the building that weTre standing in is in need of serious
maintenance.�

oRight,� Mary Anne says. oBut we keep pointing the finger at
the other person.�

oIsn't that sort of what youTre doing,� Harvard says.

oWhat do you mean?�

oAren't you Just pointing,� Harvard says. oI mean, I donTt see

you out there making things better.�

oT canTt get out there. There is no out there for me.�

oYou lost me.�

oTTm not real,� Miss Mary Anne Moore of Columbia University
says. oI am a fictional creation. Not corporeal. I am only words on
a page that someone is reading.�

oT see,� Harvard says in a not-so-subtly dubious way.

oT canTt do anything but sit here like a carving on a tree for
people to look at over and over and over again.�

oAnd this is why you canTt change the world.�

oRight.�

oYouTre just written words.�

oRicht�

oI donTt buy at�

Harvard looks at her: Miss Mary Anne Moore of Columbia
University. She flips a strand of red hair over her shoulder looking
out the Morningside Heights apartment window. ThereTs two
young black children jumping up and down ona sofa by the curb.
A third kid is sort of riding and run/pushing a toy truck around the
empty street in front of them at a high enough speed to cause
serious abrasions and/or cracked teeth (and almost certain wailing

and tears) should he trip and bite the concrete.

oI donTt care whether you ~buy itT or not. ThatTs just the way it 1s.�

oI mean, supposing I was a written entity, then I could flip this
coin here. And the readers, who are sort of like god, could tell
whether itTs gonna be heads or tails?�

oCertainly.�

oHow so?�

oThey can just read ahead in our conversation - in our dialogue
" in our story - and see which side itTs going to land on.�

oSo theyTre capable of seeing into the future.�

oFor them itTs not future,� Mary Anne says. oFor them, our
world exists in its own time. It is a manifestation of past, present,
and future.�

Harvard seems to think about this a moment. His gaze drifts
somewhere into the space of his apartment. He thinks of the
fountain. ITm thinking of the fountain. Harvard thinks. If ocutting
edge� becomes honesty squared arenTt we just descending another
rung on the literary ladder. I suppose we'd be post-pomo charac-
ters. Whata blahh, blockity, post-post-pomo yes my mountain
flower yes modernism cubed yes feeling my breasts all perfume
yes stream-of-artifice yes in our postT yes world Yes.

oascending,� Mary Anne is saying, otowards complexity.

We arenTt flesh. We donTt have cheeky names like Molly or Didi
or Estragon. Our story exists as a sort of anti-story. It is re-modern:
anti-avant-garde. Our reality is understood to be an artifice.�

oThe thing is, we are not real " at least not corporeal. It is the
fantasy of honesty, and we have no more control over our actions

than a pair of marionettes.�

oOur world would be a lonely world if that were so.�

oOnly because our creator is an undergraduate.�

oWhat makes you so sure heTs an undergraduate anyway?�

oHe doesnTt possess a deft, ribald wit.�

Harvard doesnTt much like the implications of, or conviction
with, what Miss Mary Anne Moore says. ItTs the kind of thing that
drives him nuts: the way she is so ardent about her belief. But it is,
too, one of the attributes he likes most about her: her passion and

zeal always balanced by a cool nonchalance that almost negates her

own belief in what she says. But what she says is always there. It will

always be there. He goes to the window and sighs.

oWe're always finding something to make us believe our
existence is more important than it actually is.�

oWhy is that?� Harvard asks without turning from the window
oInsecurities, | suppose. We want to believe that somewhere,
sometime, we'll all be important and happy and wealthy, and every-

thing will be essentially good.�

oReality isnTt all that bad.�

oSpeak for yourself. Not everybody likes living in the world.�

Harvard crosses to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of
water and motions to Mary Anne.

oNo thanks,� she says. oPart of the reason for our existence is
to continue pushing what it means to exist in some sort of positive
direction. Stay too long in the same place and a person becomes
complacent. And complacency on a cultural level is the forerunner
of a nationTs atrophy.�

Harvard drinks some of the water. It is cool and clean. A few drops

run down his chin. He wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand.

IZ

© 0, 0 ©

There are coins in the fountain, in the park of freshly mown grass
where the horses clippity-clop and dogs leap like grasshoppers
into the air catching airborne frisbees, and they (i.e. the coins in
the fountain) shimmer and sparkle and kids sometimes reach in the
water and snag a few off the bottom, getting soaked in the process,
then go to like HankTs Grocery at West 97th and Weldon and buy
Goobers or Sugar Babies or Milk Duds and cherry flavored Slush
Puppies, which turn their tongues bright red which they stick out
at each other laughing and pointing and having fun as kids are
often wont to do.

HarvardTs been known to stare at the bottom of the fountain
for hours through the refracted light contained therein (i.e. the
fountain) and sometimes comments that the pennies, dimes, and
quarters look like a Chirico painting heTs seen at the Museum of
Modern Art.

oThe Uncertainty of the Poet,� Harvard says. oIt looks like
The Uncertainty of the Poet - this money at the bottom of the
fountain... it 7s the uncertainty of the poet " this money at the
bottom of the fountain.�

And he'll stare at it for like hours at a time, pondering its
refracted beauty.

The thing about Harvard Inkblot 1s that he 1s really, really smart
" book smart - and he 1s a romantic type of guy. He wants to believe
in his world. He wants to believe he is real. He wants to believe that
it is good, that the lovers on the blankets never quarrel, that they
donTt have kids or if they do have kids their kids are like straight ~aT
students, who never get into trouble even if their lover parents have
lots of money and donTt spoil them and they never shoplift stuff
from HankTs or throw rocks at cars or watch pornographic movies
or masturbate because thatTs just sick, sick, sick and kids are too
innocent and good to ever do anything like that in HarvardTs mind.
He doesnTt want to believe that little Johnny who slurps cherry
flavored Slush Puppies might steal peopleTs credit cards and might
go to Circuit City and buy Onkyo stereos or RCA Tvs and might sell
them at pawn shops for money to buy Kind Bud from 40-year-old
men who live in squalid rat-hole apartments and grow sensimilla
under halogen lamps and own .45s and 9 millimeters and smell of
week old sweat and drink cheap beer at 9:36 a.m. on Monday
mornings. He doesnTt want to believe that little Johnny waits

outside of HankTs Grocery for reprobates who live in the park to

buy him (i.e. little Johnny) malt liquor and doesnTt want to believe
that little Johnny gets fucked up with other little Johnnies or
Jimmies and doesnTt want to believe that little Johnny breaks into
cars and hot-wires them and drives around the city as drunk as the
40-year-old men who sell him pot and offer him cocaine and crack
and that the other little Johnnies and Jimmies swagger about odah
folkin ahsam� rush crack gives them and that they talk about
robbing convenient stores or shooting cats, et cetera, et cetera.

No, Harvard Inkblot doesnTt want to believe any of this. After all,
the grass in the park 1s freshly mown.

And heTs heard the horsesT hooves clippity-clop. HeTs watched
the squirrels chatter and chirp and laughed at the little dogs that
leap into the air like gazelles. HeTs smiled at the joggers and said
hello to young mothers whom push infants in strollers. HeTs gazed
at the forever, clear, blue sky and the occasional puff of cloud that
may drift into its perfection. HeTs been polite to customers he
recognizes from the Laundromat. HeTs marveled at the total bliss
of young women alone on clean blankets, reading French poetry,
absorbing sunlight like sponges.

No, there are no illusions in HarvardTs world. He believes he
is real. He must be. Cogito ergo sum and all that jazz.

Still though, what if he were only words? What if it was all an
artifice? Would that change the basic necessity to do what is right?

ThereTs a picnic table in the park where Harvard can view the
fountain from a distance and watch the lovers on their blankets and
listen to the horses clippity-clop and the squirrels chatter and
chirp. The table-top is made of cedar and looks a lot like public
park picnic table-tops are supposed to look. ItTs composed of three
8" x 2"s laid over a metal skeleton. There are names carved in the
table top: wanDA 12/98; saTAN luvs SHELLY; ALPHA PHI #1 (with
subsequent disparaging remarks as to what ALPHA PHI 1s #1 at).

Harvard began carving a portrait of Mary Anne Moore like
two months ago and has worked on it every three to four days for
several hours each day. ItTs his first serious project since graduat-
ing back in December from CU and taking the job at SimTs Dry
Cleaning and Laundromat. It is simply beautiful, a work of art, and
Harvard plans to show Mary Anne, when he is done. He spent like
fifteen hours alone on the features of her eyes: her eyebrows and
eyelashes, the depth of her eyesockets, the rise of her cheekbones.
HeTs memorized every feature and contour of her face. HeTs carved
the exact angle of her lips: memorized their subtle piquance when
sheTs resting supine on his couch contemplating the influence of
Freud on Ernst or Lamarck on de Balzac. The carving is an
amalgam of early surrealist and American realist " its nexus
simplicity and beauty " and it appears to hover above and within
the cedar wood.

The tone of the late afternoon sun soothes and inspires: it is the

one moment of the day when Harvard forgets his worries as to

whether he is real and can become, in his mind, one with the
carving on the table. He'll trace his fingers lambently over the
grooves of her hair and caress her face. HeTll study, with superb
craftsmanship and sensitivity, the expression in her eyes. He'll
muse over what she is thinking as she lies there recumbent and
profound. The carving is of her on his couch and runs the length
of the cedar top. Her pose is linear and his eye for her personality
keen and sensitive.

Passersby occasionally stop and marvel at his work. oIt is
amazing,� they'll say. Or, oGod, thatTs incredible.� And heTll nod
politely and comment that it makes him happy, this carving.
Couples will stand and watch him work and whisper to one another
about this man, Harvard Inkblot, this man they see in the park
carving portraits reminiscent of Wyeth or the Ashcan Eight. They'll
go to coffee shops nearby the park, and Harvard Inkblot will come
up nonchalantly in conversations. They'll mention maybe to a
friend or two, this guy they saw in the park carving the most
beautiful portrait: oOn a picnic table top, no less! YouTve just
got to see it to believe it.�

oT guess thatTs what you'd call, ~urban art,�

the friends will quip
and theyTll maybe go to see this guy carving like the next day. And
then they'll say things like, oDamn... heTs not bad.�

Yes, the park is pretty much HarvardTs life. It is where he is real.
He swaggers off Mary AnneTs convictions in his apartment easily
enough, but deep down he feels it, too. He wonders if he might just
be written. Not that it would be terrible if he were. Perhaps,
confining and restricting but not terrible. In some ways, he likes
to think that maybe he is just words. He thinks. It would ensure a
certain sort of immortality if I were written. I would be here, or
wherever it is that I am, for people to see, to think about, to interact
with for years and years to come. Although, I wouldnTt really be
interacting with them per se. They would more or less be viewing
me, as though I were a picture. And he brushes a few shavings away
from the upper thigh of Mary Anne MooreTs portraiture.

Her thighs are soft as down and round as porthole light. The
fingers of her hands are slender and elegant, yet strong and
confident as only her hands could be. They are graceful hands,
seductive hands, hands capable of life grasping strength and as
serene as numbers: one, two, three, four... Her face amazes: high,
slender cheeks as smooth as a summer afternoon. Eyes that
possess an honesty like a childTs shyness and a maturity like that
of seduction, a hesitant willingness to please, and a subtle attitude
that expects nothing less from her partner, though it would never
be demanded.

Her hair is like an Iowa wheat field in the wind of twilight dusk.
And it glides down over her right breast, hiding her nipple in a

comforting shade. There is pleasure there within her chest, soft,

gigeling laughter at a caressing hand along her supple waist. Her

mouth whispers yes, and hidden within those three perfect letters
are the expectation of grace and tact, wisdom and strength. Miss
Mary Anne Moore wants to be possessed, but she does not want
to be a possession.

It is safe to say that Harvard loves what he does. It is more the
giving, than that of taking. He wants to show her that she is real.
He wants to freeze her beauty in the cedar that would otherwise be
given to crudity and inanity. Harvard InkblotTs sure she will love it.
She will see his work. She'll see his genius. SheTll understand that
more than anyone else, he can provide for her what no one else
can: a fulfillment and an understanding of who she 1s.

He rubs the labor-borne sweat from his brow with the back of
his left hand. It is hot and wet: the afternoon sultry: the carving an
effigy of perfection. Harvard brushes back cedar shavings from
Mary Anne MooreTs hair.

OOF OFo

Heat is generated from vacuous space within SimTs Dry Cleaning
and Laundromat. It rolls over the air, is thick and moist. It occupies
every cubic inch of Laundromat as though SimTs was a sauna or
tropical forest, only hotter, and would almost certainly make an
ideal habitat for scientists interested in self-organizing systems.
There is no entropy within SimTs, the second law of thermody-

namics a cruel joke for Harvard Inkblot to ponder as he unloads

TON

Ele

FIRST PEACE -

74

heat drenched clothes from giant cylindrical tanks capable of drying
up to seventy-five pounds of laundry at a time. These things are
industrial power mega-dryers that could literally hold hke four or
five moderate sized juveniles within their bowels.

Harvard Inkblot took the job at SimTs after undergrad work at
Chase and a two year stint at ColumbiaTs VA grad school. His
masterTs thesis project, Bifurcation of Linear and Non-Linear
Systems: A War of Concavity and Convexity, presented at the Leo
Castelli Gallery, has ignited its fair share of debates around the
Laundromat as to the state of the post-postmodern condition. That
kind of discussion coupled with the munificent $5.25/hour, which
Harvard earns, has been more than enough to keep a man of such
credentials gainfully employed. His manager, the youthful, amiable,
David Sneeze, says itTs good to see all those years of education are
paying off.

Sneeze is the kind of guy you canTt help but like. HeTs confident,
polite, good looking in a young Ibsenish sort of way, and always
understanding of his employeesT needs. HeTs sensitive but manly,
sincere yet direct, soft spoken but strong " the kind of person who
buys drinks for women with no ulterior motive, really. Harvard
Inkblot just thinks the world of him.

Perhaps, thatTs why the alarm goes off in his head when Sneeze
tells him about a new girl heTs met at The Bawdy.

oDramaturgy,� Sneeze says. oGuess she wants to be a playwright
or something " a bit aloof, but really, really smart. Had this look
about her.�

And HarvardTs mind does no inconsiderable amount of reeling.

oHad the reddest hair and green eyes and god what a body.
Beautiful.�

oTTve been noticing a thumping noise on fourteen,� Harvard says.

oSaid she was in her third year at Columbia.�

oAnd Mr. Weeny came in complaining about stains " stains -
like T'd put them there. Said he didnTt want to have to talk to
management, but that what else could he do.�

oDid you give him a refund?�

oHe didnTt want a refund,� Harvard says. oSaid a refund
wouldnTt make the stains on his shirts go away.�

oStains,� Sneeze asks, oas in plural.�

oThe guyTs a jerk. I looked at his shirts. There were no stains
there. He said I needed to maybe like have my eyes checked. I told

him I have regular optical exams " twice a year. Told him about my

motherTs cataracts. Told him I have bad dreams about cataracts.
Told him my eyes are in ship-shape condition.�

oWhat'd he do?�

oSaid heTd have to talk to management,� Harvard says.
oRecommended an optometrist " last name Blind. Like ITm gonna
trust my cataractically labile eyes to a doctor named Blind. No
thank you, sir.�

oT didnTt know you had a mother.�

oItTs a pretty common thing,� Harvard says. oLotTs of people
have them.�

oT mean,� Sneeze seems to think about what it is that he means.
oYou know what I mean.�

oThe thumping on fourteen is coming from the furnace.�

oWeheek om i

And Sneeze checks on it.

The thing about David Sneeze is that heTs not a bad guy.

HeTs not some womanizing bastard who tells his buddies the little
idiosyncratic things his girlfriends do in bed. And the term
~girlfriendsT (i.e. plural) should be qualified to roughly somewhere
between twenty and thirty females with whom heTs had coitus "
about ten of whom were long term (i.e. at least three months) and
that although most respectable women would consider that number
a little on the high side he doesnTt consider himself a ~playerT so
much as a regular guy who enjoys the company of women in a
respectably re-modern kind of fashion where promiscuity 1s
certainly a concern but not forbidden (and not really all that
uncommon a thing among, say, guys between the ages of like twenty
and thirty-five). HeTs just enjoying his freedom and isnTt really
looking to settle down yet, which too, isnTt that uncommon a thing
among either young women or young men " young women and
young men who are business minded and ambitious as hell and

are all about having a good time, but too, work pretty damn hard
and make plenty of cashola in the process. When asked if he plans
to work in a Laundromat the rest of his life he says hell no, but
doesnTt know what else to do to make ends meet.

The Bawdy is one of his favorite bars to go to and he often meets
women there but does not just necessarily sleep with them simply
because they are there and they like his smile and his wit and charm.
There are deeper aesthetic reasons he goes to The Bawdy.

Sneeze at heart loves social interaction and gets really weirded
out when heTs not with other people and 1s definitely not the loner
type but is gregarious with a capital ~GT and loves to watch people
interact and loves to interact because in many ways it reminds him
of the times his father would play chess with him when he was
little, which was one of the only things his father ever really did
with him on anything like a regular basis. His dad, A.P. Sneeze Sr.
(twice divorced), used to tell him that nothing replicated life so

much as a game of chess. And little Dave craved father-son time as

do all semi-normal to normal children but pops was a fast-tracker
with two ex-wives and an assortment of random and many times
rebarbative girlfriends, some of whom tried and some of whom
didnTt try to make little Dave feel comfortable.

Dave grew up watching his father bringing home one female
after another as though the front door was a turn-stile on whose
opposite side there seemed a never ending assortment of women
ready to plunge into meaningless relationships with a charming
and wealthy albeit neglectful man.

oStrange girl, that Mary Anne,� Dave says to Harvard from the
bowels of dryer number fourteen.

HarvardTs concentration is broken imperceptibly. He continues
filing receipts and checking laundered linens.

oAsked me what ITd do if I werenTt in control of my actions.�

Harvard checks off a list of cleaned laundry, their white bags
stacked orderly and neatly in a bin next to the counter.

oStupid question if you think about it,� Sneeze says. oBut damn
what a fine piece of perfection she was.�

oT donTt see whatTs so stupid about it,� Harvard says.

He starts folding some large sheets from the clean laundry bin.

oWell, if you werenTt in control of your actions how would you
know what youTd do?� Dave asks.

Harvard snaps a sheet in the air, folds it over, and smoothes out
the creases.

oHow do you know that everything we do isnTt controlled,�
Harvard says. oHow do you know it isnTt pre-planned?�

Sneeze looks out from behind the guts of fourteen, wiping sweat
from his forehead. oDonTt get all metaphysical on me.�

Harvard snaps a sheet in the air, folds it over, smoothes out the
creases, and stacks it with the others.

oI mean donTt get me wrong. I believe in God and everything.
There has to be something that started all this. How else can you
explain it? But whether itTs Christ or Buddha or whatever I just
donTt know. It seems kind of selfish to think that if there is a God
capable of creating the universe, you know, beyond the infinite and
all that " that heTd be so concerned with us. I just donTt know.�

oHow do you know thatTs what she meant?� Harvard says.

oWhat do you mean?�

oHow do you know thatTs what she meant by ~GodT?�

Sneeze seems to think about this. oTo tell you the truth, I donTt
know what she meant about ~GodT. I didnTt talk to her all that long.
Seemed a little too ~out thereT for me, you know what ITm saying?�
Then, as an afterthought. oGood looking woman, though.�

A guy comes in to pick up laundry for MacaroniTs, an Italian
restaurant over on East 116th.

oHell of a day,� he says to Harvard.

oYou got that right.� Harvard checks the receipts against the stacks

of laundry in the cleaned and folded bin, finding the correct bags.

oThey got it hot enough in here for you?� He asks.

oItTs negentropic,� Harvard says.

The guy looks at him, searching his face for something. oWell,
you ought to have the management sued " conditions like this.
ItTs inhumane.�

Harvard attempts a smile. oJust makes me all the more apprecia-

tive when I get off work.�

oLittle lady keeps the home cool for you, heh?�

oLike an icebox.� Harvard smiles.

oWell, thats mice, Winates mice.

Harvard hands him three large bags of laundered table cloths,
napkins, etc.

oWell, try and keep cool, you hear?�

oYou too.�

Harvard watches the guy exit. He thinks about his empty
apartment.

oT think thatTs got it,T Sneeze says from number fourteen.

He stands up and closes the door to the furnace on fourteen "
moves his toolbox out of the way.

oLet me see that bag there,� he says pointing to a cleaned-but-
not-dried bag of laundry.

Harvard hands him the bag, and Sneeze dumps them in. He
turns the dryer on, and the clothes start spinning around inside the
giant vat. They watch it for a moment or two. The machine whirs at

a pretty smooth pace.

El Gi ON

ACE

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FIRS ©

76

oT didnTt know you were hitched,� Sneeze says cleaning up
his tools.
oOh, well, ITm not really. SheTs just a friend.�
oThose are the best kind. Commitment can be a bitch, believe me.�
Harvard thinks of the park, he thinks of the portraiture near the
fountain. oYeah, I suppose it can be.�
The clothes in the dryer tumble softly: the Laundromat an

environment of unremitting heat.

O07 07-0

If he stands very still and very silent, he can almost hear it " the
sweet, unendurable calm of the vapid, textual landscape. It will pass
him by in a dream or an abstract thought when he settles himself
into the reality that no matter what he does, no matter what he
creates or imagines, it can only be how heTd wish it would be, never
how it actually is. And it frightens him like hell. For all the artists in
the world can play and play and play - they can carve and they can
sing and they can write the most poignantly elegant prose on GodTs
green earth, but it is only art " it is only words. It will never be what
it strives to be: it will never be heaven.

oTTve got something I want to show you.�

oAre you hungry?� Mary Anne asks.

oThis will move you, Mary Anne. ITve put a lot of time into it.�

oMaybe Italian,T Mary Anne says. oWhat about some Italian?
Do you feel like maybe getting a bite to eat?�

oWe can get something to eat.�

Mary Anne opens the door to HarvardTs fridge. Her breasts sort
of glow in the light from the refrigerator. Her bottom is soft and
round, the back of her legs long. She bends over to check the
produce drawer. Harvard, casual, sees the muscles of her thighs
and calves are taut. She takes a piece of celery, closes the door, and
nibbles on it abstractly.

The weather has cooled off the past few weeks. Forecasters have
noted the end of el nifo and are predicting a year of la nifia. The
Dow Jones industrial average has dipped above and below 9,000
points so many times in recent weeks, its charted graph looks like
a frenetic sine wave. Nationwide, the price of a gallon of Regular
hovers around a dollar. And more teenagers have opened fire on
classmates and friends at a middle school (this week) in a small

Southern town named Hopewell.

oPve been thinking about going on a diet,� Mary Anne says.

ooWhat for,T Harvard asks.

oWhat for?�

She pinches at her belly, showing him. From HarvardTs perspec-
tive it looks like sheTs maybe got half an inch of tight, thin skin
between her thumb and index finger. She is as thin as a supermodel.
Harvard thinks.

oThatTs what for,� she says, resolute with proof.

He doesnTt say anything aloud. The shake of his head and slight
roll of his eyes tell her that sheTs crazy if she thinks she needs to
lose weight. She recognizes it and seems to believe him.

oWhat do you want to show me?� She asks.

olts a suprise:

oA surprise?�

oYes, a surprise,� he says. oWhat " you donTt think ITm capable
of surprises?�

oNo, no. ItTs not that... a surprise... What kind of surprise is it?�

oWell, if I told you then it wouldnTt be a surprise, now would it?�

She is distant, her mind puzzling over the idea of a surprise.

oIT suppose not.�

Harvard begins dressing. He pulls on a pair of denim jeans
and finds a clean cotton shirt. He looks up from putting on his
socks and sees Mary Anne still naked in the kitchen. She appears
deep in thought.

oAre you going to-�

oDo you think ITm attractive?� She asks Harvard.

Harvard pulls on his second sock.

oOf course,� he says.

oNo, I mean do you find me attractive?�

Harvard looks at her. She turns her gaze from the window to
meet his eyes. HeTs marveled at the park green shade of her eyes
before. They are soft eyes. Engaging eyes. Mary Anne Moore is
the most beautiful woman Harvard has ever known.

oT think youTre attractive,� he says. oVery pretty.�

She doesnTt seem to really acknowledge this answer, turning
back to the window, gazing into the distance.

It is between West 111th and 112th that she tells him that she
has started seeing someone. He responds as though sheTd said she
had tuna for lunch. A guy named Dave Sneeze, she tells him. ThatTs
nice, he says.

There are moments in life where one is capable of genius, where
the mind unwinds for an instant and it is possible to see beyond the
doorway, or when a Snickers and Coke seem more practical than a
lottery ticket. But that goddamn lottery goes to the next person in
line, although a momentTs deliberation was spent deciding between
thirst and a 1:1,000,000 chance of winning.

oGood luck is earned,� Harvard says.

oWhatTs that,� Mary Anne asks.

oMy father used to tell me that.�

She nods her head at the sound of his voice, her mind elsewhere.

The park is very much like Harvard imagines heaven. The grass
is green as a royal garden and freshly mown, trimmed, and edged.
The sidewalks are clean and white. The fountains are eternal: the
water pure, pristine, crystal, and clear. There are little dogs out on
the grass that leap like gazelles at airborne frisbees. Joggers jog in
perfect health, listening to Mozart or Beethoven on their headsets.
Winsome, gray-haired gentlemen teach grandchildren the moves of
Fischer, Lasker, and Steinitz on tranquil park benches in the shade
of tall pines. Young ladies bask in warm sunlight, reading French
poetry. And intense young men study Mandelbrot or Derrida and
ponder the dimensions of language.

The sky is as blue as the Caribbean Sea " an aqua, turquoise
blue with a shade of cottony white drifting here and there. It is
his perfection.

oItTs up here,� Harvard says.

He points to a picnic table atop a hill of freshly mown grass.

oThis 1s it,� he says.

She looks at the table.

oOh, my god,� she says. oITm naked. Oh, my god.�

She looks around to see if anyone else is close enough to see
it: to see her, naked.

oYou cid fase�

oT did it for you, Mary Anne.�

She looks at him, then back to the carving in a state of wonder.

oItTs wonderful,� she is in awe. oItTs beautiful.�

oItTs you, Mary Anne.�

She looks at him, at his eyes, at his face as if sheTs found a side
of him she didnTt know existed before. She looks back at the table,
then moves toward it and traces her fingers over its face: her face.
It is soft and smooth: polished and refined.

oItTs the most beautiful thing ITve ever seen in my life.�

oIt is you, Mary Anne. It is you.�

She follows the seemingly infinite lines with her hands - with
her fingers " the tips of which enter the grooves, tracing the fine
channels. Mary Anne seems enraptured. And at an indecipherable
distance, Harvard believes he hears the faint sound perfection

drifting lightly in the wind.

7.

Uu OSUpPA DH 2tIDAT

ITve always enjoyed a lot of different music,
but if anyone had predicted two years ago
that I would become a country music fan,
I would have told them to take another look
into their crystal ball. I never expected JaneTs
Addiction and Fishbone to share ranks with
the smooth twangy sounds of Hank Williams
and Patsy Cline. But it happened. Life was
never the same. Using Williams and Cline as
a jumping off point, I started exploring the
roots of country music. As my search became
more involved, all roads seemed to lead to
the same place. Johnny Cash. It was hard to
find something he didnTt influence. Even
Bruce Springsteen once said that he listened
to Cash records for the extraordinary honesty
in the vocals. When I heard he was coming
to Myrtle Beach for a concert, there was no
question that I would be there. To me, seeing
Johnny Cash in concert was like a box every
country music fan, young or old, should be
able to check off. He was the man in black,
an American icon, the voice of God. I was
perfectly willing to roll the $50 worth of
pennies it would take to fund my pilgrimage.
The four hours in the car on the way to
the show had given me time to create the

JENNIFER LEGGETT

perfect concert in my mind. I pictured Cash
crooning in a dusty saloon while I tipped
back in a chair, a Stetson pulled down over
one eye, a glass of whiskey in my hand. And
as I saw the summer sunset melting off the
tin roofed music hall, I thought I might just
get my wish. Built in the likeness of an old
rusty tin shack, the House of Blues had the
charm of a juke joint with the excitement
of a rock nT roll club. The inside was just as
awe inspiring with its wide, wood planked
floors and New Orleans style decorations.
It was a fairly large venue with a wide stage
and lots of room down front to dance as
well as plenty of sitting space in the balcony
area upstairs. The sightline was fantastic
from almost every place in the club and the
wafting odor of cigar smoke added to the
binestmosplicte 2 estio eer
The crowd was surprisingly made up
mainly of people in their mid twenties with
only a handful of folks over forty. It seemed a -
new generation had tapped into the magic of $
Johnny Cash. His career had seen a resurrec-

tion of sorts thanks to American Recordings,

an ultra-hip record label featuring assorted
interests including rap acts as well as Glenn oe

72.

Danzig and Leonard Coen. CashTs 1994
release American Recordings and 1996Ts
Unchained, both produced by Rick Rubin
(of Beastie Boys fame in my generation),

had attracted fresh listeners. Unchained was
especially successful at capturing interest
from the MTvers with Soundgarden and Beck
covers, backing vocals by Tom Petty and the
Heartbreakers, and a video featuring hipster
waif-of-the-moment Kate Moss. Offers of
Lollapalooza ensued as did guest vocals on
u2Ts Zooropa album. Johnny Cash has kept
his man in black aura while progressing
toward this new generation of listeners. His
self-destructive nature of addictions to booze
and pills, his ramblings with the law, and his
concerts at San Quentin and Folsom Prison
add to his persona of a humble, appreciative
man. It is with this appeal that he made the
outlaw phenomenon possible.

At ten oTclock the patchwork quilt curtain
slowly opened as Johnny CashTs four piece
band picked up with a medley of his best
known songs. Finally the man in black strut-
ted and bopped out on stage to start out the
night with Folsom Prison Blues. The crowd
erupted with cheers. They danced, sang
along, and kept the yee ha-ing to a minimum.
One tie-dye clad young man even hopped
up on stage to give Johnny a hug but was
quickly accosted by security and led outside.
Everyone was immersed in the energy of the
show and Johnny Cash kept right up with
the crowd.

At the start of the second song, the tall
ebony draped figure showed he was there to
get down to business as he took off his jacket
and rolled up his sleeves, ready for a night
of blues rock and the sad songs of convicts
and coal miners that country music is made
of. By the third song the pace had slowed a
little. The backdrop faded to black as Johnny
stood with only a spotlight, strumming his
guitar and crooning in his distinctive baritone-
bass voice, oI had beer for breakfast,

but it wasnTt enough, so I had another.�

The audience roared with cheers and laugh-
ter, (I guess a few of them could identify with
this lyric), and the band struck it up again
for a few more rockinT songs.

The highlight of the evening came when
Johnny played Orange Blossom Special. He
started off the song telling a joke as a movie
screen was lowered behind him showing thirty
year old footage of young Johnny hopping
boxcars and riding the railroad. But the best
part of this song was when he brought out the
harmonicas. I wish I had been in the front for
this one because when the song was over,
he handed his harmonicas to two lucky peo-
ple in the front row. After this song, Johnny
took a break. After all, he is sixty-five years
old. However, this marked a turning point in
the evening.

While Johnny was on break, his son, John
Carter Cash who was backing up his dad on
acoustic guitar, did a few songs. I have to say
this fragment of the show was a little disap-
pointing. Johnny Cash supposedly has the
voice of God and this was not Jesus. John
Carter does write decent lyrics, but that night
I wasnTt up for pop/folk and this distinct shift
in talent seemed to change the dark, smoky
mood of the club. But after two songs, Johnny
was back on stage and all was well.

After a few more songs from Unchained,
Johnny brought out his wife, June Carter
Cash. She was definitely a character, wearing
all black herself except for a white ruffled
shirt with big cuffs. A lively woman, her skirt
seemed to get shorter and shorter as she
danced and twitched. It was distracting to
say the least. But what was intriguing is that
you could see the chemistry between them.
They were affectionate, energetic, and after
June came out, Johnny seemed to sparkle
even more.

Johnny took another break after a few duets
with his wife and left June and JuneTs daugh-

ter Rosie, (a self proclaimed blues singer), on

AE ITD 2

stage to entertain the crowd for what seemed
like an eternity. At this point I went upstairs
and sat down. In other words, I was bored.

I was there to hear Johnny Cash, the Ameri-
can Legend, not some rehashed version of
Carter Family classics. I was not interested in
the family affair. Charming as it may have
appeared, it made the concert seem like more
of an Opryland attraction than a down and
dirty blues show. I wanted to hear JohnnyTs
sad songs. I wanted to hear DehliaTs Gone.

After a wardrobe change, (and after I had
suffered through four or five mother/daughter
songs), Johnny finally came back on stage to
join the family in a gospel version of Let the
Circle be Unbroken. The crowd seemed rest-
less and uncomfortable with this religious
bit, but politely waited for a Johnny Cash
original. I could not have been more relieved
when he ended the night with the Shel Sul-
verstein penned classic, (and prison house
favorite), A Boy named Sue.

A renaissance man of sorts, Johnny Cash
embraces every kind of music and makes it
his own. HeTs had one of the longest careers
in country music history and has managed to
attract generations of fans, keeping the old and

adding the new without ever compromising

or reinventing himself. [t 1s this persona
that has made Cash an alternative icon to
fans who want a hero that has lived, that is
compassionate, wise, tenacious, and time-
less. HeTs honest. HeTs an original. HeTs
where it comes from and where itTs headed
to and heTs respected in a large community
of all different kinds of artists for these very
reasons. I went to see Johnny Cash because
I knew I needed to if only for the experience.
I was finally able to check off my box, but
more than that, it was a legend who had
given me my first lesson in the history of
real country music.

Just a short time after that performance,
Cash was diagnosed with Shy Drager Syn-
drome. Looking back, I feel that as a young
person with a blossoming appreciation for
the roots of real country music, I witnessed
something truly amazing. Any voice that
can encompass and convey pride, rebellion,
patriotism, tragedy, rowdiness, and heart-
break has great range. The man in black,
an American legend and country music hero,
had been on stage right in front of me. It
was an honor that transcended a mere stub
of ticket and a few hours in the car.

Trevor Van Meter

HEATHER GUIARIE

This image lTve Created Of her,
Is it real or am | only Dreaming?
Can anyone be this Perfect?
And, if she deviates

From the Boundaries

| Have given her,

Will her perfection Be eminent
Or will she Fall

From graces

No one else sees Her as | do

| doit see age

Or color

Or gender

| only see the Time marked

Beauty of Wisdom,

Intelligence, And Grace.

Her humility exudes Her being

With a single Glance.

And, with a touch Of her hand
Elegance Radiates from her Fingertips.
Her eyes always Hiding a Hint Of laughter

But cammot Conceal their Passion For life.

al ee «CO

Her smile is a Secretive, seductive One,

Almost Flirtatious

Formed with the Lips that speak Volumes.

Words are Her Passion

And they flow Freely

And expressively from her Mouth
Like a fresh spring from a mountain.
She moves with the

Grace of a well trained Dancer

And the polish of a Princess,

Yet She has no set Rhythm or design,
But a purpose.

Her demure and Shy demeanor
Show in The eyes that

Have seen thousands of sunsets

But they are hypnotic

In the way that they Draw you

Ever nearer, Ever closer

To the goddess You see before you -
The one you have put on a Pedestal,
The one you want To be near

Be like

Emulate.

But, can She live up to all

Of the expectations You Have given her?
Does she even know

What you think of Her?

Would sie Ganer

You can wish

You can hope.

She may not even be Any of these Things.

Does it matter?
She is all of them in your mind.

She may not live Up to Your standards.

Cain ou Mamadile it If sie Doesnt;

Will you love Her Anyway?

83

CRISTIAN SKINNER

The sun corroding his neck and
knifing the gray, rocky pavement
as he bends and takes the red, hot penny
from the blacktop outside Mr. PierceTs elderly country store
whose two silver gas pumps reflect the acid light into new eyes.
The paint on the store crumbles from its wooden sides
flaking away like the crumbs of cement the cars and rust trucks
roll across to get their meat and milk.
Standing now, mom ts looking at him
and his dusty hair reflects crystalline light into her eyes.
As they walk now downhill beside the store
onto the unfinished road to his house, look;
look at the yellows and browns of the dirt-rock road jumping at him.
She Is saying, oYou know what Memom says�
~Pennies make dollarsT Memom says later
as she stoops slowly in her flower print house-dress
to pick up the penny from the floor.
She puts it in a big, square pocket beneath her terry cloth apron
and scuff, scuff, scuffs her black slippers across the faded linoleum
as he watches from in front of the air conditioner
feeling droplets of sweat fade to cold on his mole-dotted skin
thinking about the cool air that whirls into his ballooning T-shirt
and how much he enjoys listening to the window unit
sing ogarrrmnkrrmnnng� in a deep baritone condenser solo.
He feels his empty pocket and tries to remember dropping the penny.
You try to remember dropping the penny
Pennies are difficult to keep up with but they are all you can get
dollars are adults and out of your reach,
like church bells ringing people to service, dollars
crackle and call children to adult life.
Pennies make dollars
dollars make adults
and that sounds like a fair promise, donTt
you think, that even you might have dollars of your own?
You can buy your own goodwill salvation clothes
and mothball furniture. Find pennies in the road
sometimes; maybe they will make dollars,
maybe with dollars of your own, your dad will visit sooner.
Once you have dollars maybe you and Dad and Mom will go to McDonalds
and you can buy a Happy Meal instead of just a hamburger
maybe it happens when pennies make dollars.

eo tla geman

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