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PATIENT NAME REBEL, THE
DIAGNOSIS LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE
| EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY |
EDITOR
LUKE HUGHETT
ART DIRECTOR
ASHLEY PUTNAM
CREATIVE DIRECTION
LUKE HUGHETT
ASHLEY PUTNAM
DESIGNERS
ASHLEY PUTNAM
HEATHER DRIVER
LUKE HUGHETT
COPY EDITOR
MIMOSA MALLERNEE
GALLERY JUDGES
SCOTT EAGLE
MICHAEL SALTER
DALE FLATTUM
LITERARY JUDGES
ROBERT SIEGEL
TODD LOVETT
MELISSA HOWELL
GALLERY PHOTOGRAPHER
CATHERINE WALKER
FACULTY ADVISOR
CRAIG MALMROSE
STUDENT MEDIA STAFF
PAUL WRIGHT
YVONNE MOYE
The Rebe/ is produced for and by the students of East Carolina University.
Offices are located in the Student Publications Building. Volume 42 and its
contents are copyrighted 2000 by the Rebe/. 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 with-
out the written permission of the writer or artist.
®) Printed on recycled paper with nonstate funds.
POETRY
FOOD BETTER ENJOYED ALONE Robin Vuchnich
GUTTED Christopher Salerno
FATHER Heather Stancil
EMPTY HANDED PAINTER Brendan O'Donnell
THE SLOW KITCHEN DEATH D. Miccah Smith
A CHILD'S CHAPTER Christopher Salerno
IN THE ATTIC-MANDOLIN TO MY CHEST Christopher Salerno
FICTION
FOREVER MOVING FORWARD, FOREVER MOVING AWAY Sracey Cochran
THE DEATH OF PRINCIPE VALEROSO, JR. Chris English
DROWNING CHICKENS Chris English
WAITING FOR LUCKY Jenny Vickers
WAITING TO GO Brendan O'Donnel!
NON-FICTION
18TH AND VINE Steve Losey
ART GALLERY
BEST IN SHOW
ANIMATION
CERAMICS
GRAPHIC DESIGN
ILLUSTRATION
METAL DESIGN
PAINTING AND DRAWING
PHOTOGRAPHY
PRINTMAKING
SCULPTURE
TEXTILE DESIGN
RPRERE a Seah e ea pe gage a
WOOD DESIGN
ew} JueswWjUIOdde
honorable mention, poetry
ande
ITve got more dried up, useless pens
ONNELL, BRENDAN
than I have poems.
I've got pens that lay around my room under books, underwear,
and on top of piles and piles of pages that are now covered heavily
in smears of splattered ink.
Each night, each page, lit up by my bed lamp light, looked decorated
with delicately crafted words, but sometime after the skull-bouncing vibrations
of inspired accomplishment that would send me to bed drunk with smile,
and before I awoke sober and dry-eyed,
they became muted"blurred by smeared splattered ink
on echoless canvases of Pollock painted poetry.
~
I've got too many dried up, useless pens
that lay around like something; .
and that something will hopefully | Soe , J
be there in the morning. _ eS Ps ae
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dark sky. The warm malt liquor and the stale
taste of the cigarette fill my mouth as I watch two cardinals in Ailanthus trees, imagining they were
dancing like IndonesiaTs Birds of Paradis
ITm waiting for Lucky.
I like the ambiance of Piggly Wiggly at sunset. This Piggly Wiggly in particular closes at six o'cloc
rb (sometimes I lean my back against the Coke machines) between the dirty, glass doors that
Wearing my pale yellow toreador pants, I sit on the cu
lead into the dusty, rotten smelling, oUltra Savings and M
A neon sign reads oLuckyTs,� and has an outline of an overflowing beer,
pink, orange of the lights. On the other side of town they have big
polyangular pool clubs, some of them with memberships and
shiny oak bars. The supermarkets that kick people like me out of
their parking lots are open twenty-four hours, smell good, and
have new lighting and sneaky cameras. Their customers aren't
afraid after dark.
I sit anachronistically in a part of town where nothing seems to
change except the ages and seasons. The enfants terribles rage and
rule like the dark shadows of city streets.
I donTt think that anyone knows his real name, but people know
that the owner, Lucky, is not a man to be reckoned with. I doubt
that anyone even knows what he looks like, but from the collection
of tales I hear from the homeless men whose butts fill the cracked,
wooden stools of LuckyTs, he is a handsome, witty, infamous man.
From their stories I've created an image of a man that would have
the answer to it all. He is said to be a healer who has traveled
across the world by foot, relentless in his pursuit of discovering
the intricacies of life and death. He is said to have died and come
back to life. Someone once said that he drives a Harley. They say he
dresses in black leather from head to toe and has long, slick, black
hair to match. He is supposed to have eyes the color of water and if
you get a chance to look into them you can see your future. I am
here every Sunday of every week, normally with a different man on
the curb beside me each time, waiting for Lucky and his Harley.
I donTt know how it happened"a girl with a college degree,
aspirations, a family who pushed for her to be something someday,
and a boyfriend who stuck by after one emotional breakdown to
the next"sitting in front of a pool room waiting for a man who
may never show up.
I light a match and suck on the yellow butt of
an old cigarette that I've scrounged from an
ashtray outside of Piggly Wiggly Supermarket.
Sitting on a charcoal-colored curb, underneath
the beginning of a blackening sky, I sip on my
Private Stock Finest Malt Liquor"oh, it goes
down as smooth as light slipping underneath a
e. The parking lot's grey cement contrasts with the glorious pink of the sky.
ore� supermarket. LuckyTs Pool Hall, the only official pool ohall� in town, is right next to me.
with the foam flashing pink. I watch my shiny leather boots reflect the green,
ae 5 es ox, ae ees aes ibsrer es Ye aon ee APES a. >=
honorable mention, fiction
K
VICKERS, JENNY
k in the winter and seven o'clock in the summer.
One of the derelicts, who | scarcely recognize because of his gaudy pink slippers and garish,
orange make-up, comes stumbling out and stares at me as if I were a lost relative, a beautiful
whore, or nothing at all.
He sits down next to me, or rather next to my forty, with glaring eyes adjusting themselves to
the glow of my shoes.
He looks up at the sky, so empty tonight, and says to me, oCan I have a cigarette?� I reach
into the Kool sand ashtray and toss the biggest butt I can find up the air.
His wrinkled fingers move slowly, like in those dreams where no matter how hard you try to
move your body it won't. And I just canTt believe it! He misses, and it falls to the ground in a
puddle, rolls into the drainpipe and is gone.
| hear the slush-slush of the sewer and then notice the smell of urine. I imagine the thou-
sands of people sitting on their toilets right now, thinking, flushing. And here it all is. And there
it all goes, right back into the system.
oITm sorry about that,� I say, staring at the stream of sewage rushing by below the metal grate.
oThat's all right hon. Got some change you can spare?� His voice sounds muffled and his
ke DroopyTs. His ears wiggle when he hears the sounds of silver and nickel in pock-
cheeks sag li
ets. My hand is in front of him, full of dimes, nickels, and quarters;
1 donTt know exactly how much.
He reaches out and closes my hand. His nails are painted white. oI can't go in there,� he says.
oCan you?�
oWhy not?� I ask, oYou got some phobia
for supermarkets?�
He laughs and says, oNo, only Piggly Wiggly.�
oYeah, well then I have a phobia for Harris Teeter. What's up with these supermarket names anyway?�
oI donTt know.� He laughs again and says the words oPiggly� and oWiggly� really slowly and then oHarris Teeter� in the same way. I laugh too. oMan!� he says. oITm
banned from both those places.� He takes his white fingernails off of my hand. oTBout a week ago I was caught sleepinT in the warehouse behind the store. Since they
already caught me in the women's bathroom, they told me to stay clear from Alfred for awhile. HeTs the mean Tol white store manager. I couldTve sworn he had a crush
on me though...� He continues talking as I get up and walk away.
Inside the store it is cool, but stinky. Food stamp week is almost over. As my shiny boots cross over the yellowish-brown floor towards the beer aisle | imagine run-
ning into Lucky near the packaged meat aisle, which is practically empty and now lined with pools of coagulated blood. I would stand in the stench of it all and glimpse
into the water to discover what I need to know. I'd tell him that I am confused; I'd ask for the right way to go; I'd tell him that if he could tell me what to do and that
everything will be fine, then I will be fine too. I have been told that the world is free, but yet been taught irresponsibility. I canTt be responsible for this freedom of
choice, because what if I choose the wrong thing? ,
appointment time
8:30
8:45
9:00
9:15
9:45
10:00
10:15
10:45
11:00
11:15
11:30
11:45
12:00
12:15
12:30
12:45
1:00
1:15
1:30
1:45
2:00
2:15
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I hear a whimpering in the distant night and a series of gunshots paralyzes the air. Piggly Wiggly is getting quiet; all of the shoppers are on their
way toward Douglas Street to buy drugs, or to go home, or to feed the crying children on their porches. I wonder where Lucky is.
A FEW GUNSHOTS LATER, I HEAR THE RUMBLE OF A MOTORCYCLE. TWO PEOPLE PULL IN ON A BIKE. A BONY GIRL WITH YELLOW HAIR AND
ARTIFICIALLY-TANNED SKIN GETS OFF THE BIKE. THE MAN IS WEARING BLACK LEATHER AND A SILVER HELMET WITH THE WORDS oJESUS LOVES
YOu,� AND UNDERNEATH THAT, oBut I DonTt GIvE A FucK ABOUT YOU.� STRANDS OF WIND-BLOWN, BLACK HAIR FALL UPON HIS SHOULDERS.
I AM LOOKING HIM UP AND DOWN AS HIS LEGS UNSTRADDLE THE BIKE AND STAND BEFORE ME. I| FEEL LIKE A DERELICT SMOKING THESE OLD
BUTTS AND SIPPING ON WARM, CHEAP, BUT FINE, MALT LIQUOR, WAITING FOR THIS MAN, WHO HAS NEVER EVEN SEEN ME BEFORE. TO TRY TO
ATTRACT HIS ATTENTION, I CROSS MY LEGS THIS WAY AND THAT WAY, PUFF MY LIPS OUT AS I SUCK ON THE LAST FEW DRAGS OF THIS CIGA-
RETTE, LEAN BACK AND JUT OUT MY LEFT SHOULDER, AND LOOK AS DESPERATE AS I POSSIBLY CAN. AS HE WALKS PAST ME TO THE COKE
MACHINE, HE ASHES ON MY HEAD. THE HEELS OF THE WOMAN FOLLOWING CLOSE BEHIND HIM GO CLICK-CLICK.
oHey, sexy momma, let me spend some silver on ya.� His voice doesnTt sound smooth like this malt liquor, but harsh and raspy. A cigarette hangs
from his mouth.
He places one of his hands into black leather pants. I hear the jingle-jingle of change.
oSure thing,� she says.
oI know how much ya like cherries,� he says, handing her a Cherry Coke and then reaching both hands around her and grabbing a handful of her ass. She
giggles and then the soda can goes ophsstclck� when she opens it up. I try not to stare, but if I could only see those clear eyes underneath the sunglasses he
wears. He laughs like a hyena and then kisses the flaxen-haired girl.
They begin to make out, right here. He looks like Lucky, but doesnTt act like Lucky. Who is this girl? I decided to say something.
oExcuse me,� I say to them, standing up.
oI ain't got no more change if thatTs what you want,� he says. The girl whispers something into his ear and they both laugh at me.
oNo, I was wondering if...�
oYou just leave me and my girl alone, you hear me?� he says opprobriously, taking off his sunglasses. oI donTt want my girl to be bothered by no freak. Now,
get outta here!�
I look into his eyes, but I donTt see the color of water. They are dark, practically black. I canTt believe this. I donTt know what to say. I manage to mumble
oLucky� as I walk away.
That's right, you're LUCKY, s.r. tse orme noc beaing your as�
I disappear into the dark neighborhood. All of the houses are run-down, with chipped paint, crooked front porches, and missing street lamps. I sit down on
an empty swing in the middle of an empty playground, swinging back and forth, feeling the rush of the night air and listening to the sounds of life"birds
chirping overhead, children laughing or crying, a television mumbling someone into a trance"I run home to my apartment and sit in the darkness for hours.
Without realizing where my conscious thoughts cease and my subconscious ones emerge, I dream of floating in clear water.
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first place, nonfiction
INE
LOSEY, STEVE
I opened my eyes and squirmed under the heavy hotel quilt before sitting up. My roommate A.J
ww
»
sat on his bed, tying his shoes. oLate night?� he asked, with a smirk under his brown Wyatt Earp
mustache. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed my glasses from the nightstand. A.J. had left the room
dark, but the bathroom door was open and cast light on the wall.
I laughed. oYeah. Miccah and I couldn't get seats for the movie, so we hit a few jazz clubs. How
was it?�
A.J. shook his head. oWell, it was okay in the beginning, but by the end, the story just lost it
How were the clubs?�
oFun. One place served this kind of custard dish that had been scorched on the top. It wa
' S
good. Heard some singers that were pretty good.�
oDidn't know you were a jazz fan.�
oUh-huh. On the plane, I was reallypsyched about hearing the music here.�
oWell, you might like this: Dwayne and Fabian were talking about going to the jazz museum
?.
this weekend.�
oReally?� My interest was piqued. oDidn't know there
Ws was a museum here. I'll have to go. That would be cool.�
3 oYou think you'll make it to any panels today?� A.J.
smirked again.
ta.
oOh, yeah. I think I'll make a couple.�
He pulled a
e door behind
ched with
oWell, ITm going to breakfast. I'll see you later.�
winter jacket over his skinny frame and pulled th
him as he left. I swung my feet to the floor and hun
my forearms on my knees for a minute. After I dressed, I threw
the heavy curtains open by the long plastic rods and looked out
from my fourteenth-floor room over the Kansas City morning.
Taxis streamed in and out of the hotel driveway, disgorging pas-
sengers and, just as quickly, sucking up fresh ones. People walked
briskly along the sidewalks,
cold, and dodged cars. I spent a long time staring across the
bundled against the November
street at Union Station's huge sweeps of beige stone. It reminded
eleven
At eight in the morning, my options were
even though I knew it would be expensive.
her early thirties, showed me to my table. We
walked past the bar, her heels clicking on the
expensive suits and silk ties, sipped coffee,
and read the Wall Street Journal. I suddenly
felt self-conscious as I pored over the menu.
I had walked in wearing ragged canvas Nikes,
town. A taxi dropped us in front of the Gem Theater, one of
12
the last remaining theaters from the heyday of Kansas CityTs jazz dis-
trict. The streets were deserted except for us and a girl a block-and-a-
half down Vine St. with short brunette hair and a black evening gown
that looked too thin to protect against the freezing temperatures. A
man with a flannel shirt, cameras slung around his neck, and a brown
vest bulging with what I assumed was more photo equipment,
crouched and shot pictures of her from low angles.
me of the Parthenon or the Coliseum. Structures hewn from
We walked up and down Vine, pulling our coats tighter with
solid rock that sat squarely and defiantly as any mountain. It each gust of wind, and peeked around the corner to look at 18th.
: The two streets, side by side, were shockingly different. Vine,
i had been closed for nearly twenty-five years, but was being pre- with sidewalks devoid of trash, clean brick facades, museums,
df ;, A theaters, and banners hanging from lampposts trumpeting oThe
pared for a grand reopening as a childrenTs science museum. Legacy Plays On,� was a model of urban renewal. The sidewalks
| Union Station wee the diemsaeie opposite of die hotel 1 ee on 18th were cracked and crumbling below neon liquor stores and
rusted rotting cars. :
Across from the Gem Theater on Vine and
in. The Westin-Crown was a glass temple,
a half a block up from 18th was the buildin
a tower of Babylon that arched over the blue jeans, and a sweater from J.C. Penney. A stained P .
ie ; that housed the Negro League Baseball
heads of the people passing iton the street praroon backpack I had owned since the eighth grade sat,
wy : Museum and the Kansas City Jazz Museum.
and reached toward the sky. Union Station limp and slightly torn in places, next to my chair. One of
' The exterior of the building appeared very art
- was the exception to the area and the the businessmen inserted a finger into his collar and
a deco; bright polished strips of metal curved
Westin-Crown was the rule, blending in worked it around, as if it were too tight. As I watched him
ati around cut-out representations of Satchel
with skyscrapers and office buildings struggle, my sweater and Nikes felt a lot more comfortable.
; Paige, Duke Ellington, Josh Gibson, and
sprouting up from the concrete. It was The waitress brought me orange juice, several links of
Charlie Parker, and held crisp blue letters
capped by a revolving restaurant and cra- sausage, and a massive stack of buttermilk pancakes that
i that spelled out the museumsT names. The
dled a shopping mall at its feet. There was was slumping from its excessive height. As I ate, I wondered
' ee Negro League Museum was an unexpected
no way that a college student like myself excitedly what I could find out about this city. That was
surprise. I was also a big baseball fan, and I
could have afforded a room in such a hotel. what I really came for. I happened to have quit my job at the
¥° ; decided that I wanted to see a little of the
I was there, and riding the checkbook of campus newspaper right after the non-refundable tickets
; ESS Negro League Museum first.
East Carolina University, no less, to attend and expense checks were cut, but before I was told about
; : We walked in from the cold through large
the National College Media Convention. them. Most everybody at the convention came to learn the
h ae glass doors and stood in the center of a
My stomach suddenly growled and I latest trends and strategies to produce award-winning pub-
: white and blue tiled lobby floor with three
realized I was starving. I took the elevator to "_j;-ations. I couldn't care less. I wanted to walk the streets at
wings. To our near right was a wing devoted
the first floor. It was a sleek tube of chrome midnight, fingers numb from the cold, tasting authentic
: entirely to Duke Ellington, to our far right
and glass, streaking up and down at incredi- Kansas City barbecue and discovering what the place was
bl was the Negro League Museum, and on our
e speeds without sound or sensation. | like, and exploring Kansas CityTs jazz seemed to me to be
left was the jazz museum.
wandered around the mall looking for food. the best way to do that.
Dwayne looked at his watch. oItTs twelve-
fifteen now. We told A.J. that we would meet
limited. One place sold grapefruit and At the end of the weekend, after days spent in seminars
| apr df is him at the art museum at two, and the air-
SROGIST CAGES. 5 WES fh SE MOOS OS ea arguing ethics and discussing management tactics with
Sa anger tere se ae pee : wr , port bus leaves the hotel at four, so we've
g hot, - bright-faced young journalism students, and nights cruis- : : ae
, as got about an hour-and-a-half here.� He
Brasserie, the hotelTs first floor restaurant, ing from casinos to rodeos to nightclubs in taxis driven by
shifted his satchel full of art supplies higher
men with nicotine-cured voices, I STOOD ON THE MOST
The hostess, a smiling redheaded lady in | FAMOUS STREET CORNER IN JAZZ AND PLAYED THE
PART OF THE STEREOTYPICAL TOURIST. FABIAN oWant to hit the Negro League Museum
SNAPPED A PICTURE OF ME, THICK EYEBROWS first?� Fabian asked. He and Dwayne edited
ARCHED, GLANCING FROM BEHIND MY GLASSES
polished hardwood floor, and past gleaming WITH A SLY SMILE, AND GESTURING WITH MY
up on his left shoulder.
ECU's minority magazine, and I had barely
brass railings and broad green ferns before I HANDS OPEN LIKE A PRICE IS RIGHT MODEL TO known them before this trip. They both
i eueaed Ruiesnnn nai: 18TH STAND VINE ST. __ wore toboggans over their short-cut hair
On Sunday, the day we were to fly back to North and spun jokes off each other like a vaude-
Carolina, Dwayne, Fabian, Miccah, and I had leftthe restof = i, duo, After our plane landed Thursday,
the ECU delegation to shop in favor of the museums down-
SP PERT ne TB BS "
I watched them try to swindle their way into a
waiting limousine, pretending to be a Mrs. Grandton. Dwayne, Fabian, and I bounced around clubs the
ening to throaty singers g4SP and moan blues.
next night with three girls from Orange County list
oI want to see the jazz museum.� In another life,
T said Miccah.
Miccah would have been an Amazon. She stood over six feet
I donTt want to see the baseball museum,
e was insane. She would shout out bizarre comments
shman year, in a class on Don Quixote, I thought sh
and always wore heavy black army boots. When we met our fre
and observations, with varying degrees of relevancy. On those occasions, our teacher, a sweet little old lady, would look as if she were plotting a quick escape in case
Miccah were to suddenly leap over the desk at her.
aid. oYou just go ahead and we'll meet you inside.�
oWe're going, don't worry, I's
tacked it every day after school, for hours at a time. | wanted to be good and I
Music kept me driven through high school. When I began playing the electric guitar, I at
wanted it fast. I soon realized that the best way to emulate my heroes was to go to their roots; trace the path they followed. Music is a series of stepping stones, one
leading to another, leaving a definable trail of branching influences. I simply worked backward, my guides interviews with musicians detailing their early years, and as I
90's alternative radio, my starting point was grunge music, such as Pearl Jam. That led me to classic rock,
learned more, my tastes exploded. Raised on MTV and early
da CD compilation of his blues songs helped me
especially Jimi Hendrix. But Hendrix was a bluesman at heart, an find B.B. King, Robert Johnson, HowlinT Wolf, and
others. But then, not knowing what was next, | had hit a wall.
down, that jazz was the next place I should go, but Iw
mfortable. My friends all had Beastie Boys, L.L. Cool
ouldnTt admit it. If I listened to jazz, I felt it would make me different and the
I knew, deep
j., and Smashing Pumpkins in their stereos. If I wanted to hear a Dave
thought made me unco
Matthews or Phish album before I bought it, I could just borrow it from a friend. Nobody I knew listened to anything remotely resembling jazz. I didnTt
know what I should try or who I should listen to.
lish teacher broke with the
class about him or her. When the suggested list came around, I scanned over names such as Frank
n
My senior year in high school, my AP Eng lesson plan to educate us on varieties of twentieth-century American art. We each
had to pick an artist to research and then teach the
s fell on John Coltrane.
Lloyd Wright, Allen Ginsberg, and Maya Lin when my eye
ent anyway, I figured I might as well give jazz a shot. I signed next to Coltrane's name and
The name rang a bell, and while | had to do a school assignm
bought a Best of John Coltrane CD fom a small rack in the back of Tower Records. And when I popped it into my stereo, it gave me musical growing pai
ains.
d this way and that chaotically, pianos jabbed briskly as a boxer, drums clattered
It wasnTt anything like what I was used to. Melodies jumped octaves, darte
in a way I couldnTt understand. I worried how I was going to teach my classmates why this was supposed to be great music when I
couldn't make sense of it myself.
I listened to the album, still not getting anything, until I reached the sixth and final track, oChasinT the Trane.� Suddenly, everything
clicked. Coltrane danced arpeggios off McCoy TynerTs piano throughout the song, twisting the melody and finding something new every
time. He squealed multiphonics, producing two tones at once in a way that should be physically impossible for a man with but a single
throat and a single saxophone. The way Coltrane placed a certain inflection on a high note had a power that made me cringe for a reason
I couldn't define. It raised the hairs on my arms the way Hendrix's oThe Star-Spangled Banner� did, and when the disc ran out, I listened
to the whole thing again.
Dwayne, Fabian, and I had gone through the Negro League Museum after about half an hour, each of us eager to spend the bulk of our
time in the jazz museum. As I entered, I was surprised to see how staid it was. The jazz museum was a large, wide open room, brightly
colored with blues and greens set off by patterns of gray. It was loosely divided into four sections on Charlie Parker, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis
Armstrong, and Duke Ellington. The exhibits were large, vertical stands bearing pictures and italicized writing on each of the subjects
and held glass cases with instruments, sheet music, clothes, and other artifacts from the jazz age. All along the right wall was a bank of a
dozen black consoles to instruct people on the elements of the music. In an alcove on the far left were three touchscreen computers with
headphones that could play from an encyclopedia of thousands of albums.
There were only a handful of people in the museum, most in their thirties or forties, dressed casually, and murmuring softly to each
other before the exhibits. As I walked in, I had expected music to be blaring from loudspeakers, but the sounds were tightly confined to
headphones, worn by people cautiously bobbing their heads.
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I turned and Dwayne and Fabian had disappeared. After a quick glance around, I saw them seated at the consoles with headphones on, smiling broadly, punching but-
tons. Dwayne saw me walk over, and removed his headphones. oThis is off the hook. This is the most interactive museum I've ever seen! Look.� He pointed to his row of
green buttons. oThey play you a song without the drums and you pick which drum pattern goes with it! They got swing rhythms, ride rhythms, playing the melody, solo-
ing. And down there,� he pointed to his left, in FabianTs direction, othey got the same thing with a saxophone, and they've got a station where you can mix a recording
from start to finish! This is great!�
It looked mildly interesting, but I decided to look at some exhibits. I didnTt want to play around with canned music. I was wondering if I could find some spark of what
had once made such great music, still glowing among the exhibits. I walked through Armstrong and found Miccah looking at Ella FitzgeraldTs gowns. oSteve, come here!�
She handed me her camera. oTake a picture of me, with the gown!� As I pressed the shutter, she mugged next to a glistening cream-colored dress on a headless man-
nequin. Miccah laughed quickly in her boots and black wool coat. oWhere's Dwayne and Fabian?�
I pointed behind a display. oOver there, by the interactive stuff. Did you see that before?�
oNo, what is it?� she asked. I told Miccah about the consoles and pointed past the Armstrong exhibit again when she asked me where it was. Without a word, she
turned and ran to the consoles.
Left alone, I began wandering the museum. I couldn't tell what I was looking for. I read each display, I looked at Charlie Parker's favorite saxophone and his original
handwritten sheet music for oScrapple From The Apple.� I listened to recordings of Wes Montgomery and it sounded the same as it always had, but being there wasnTt the
spiritual experience I had hoped for.
It was 18th and Vine, but it was not what I thought it would be. The streets were empty, the fabled clubs closed, their heroes mummified in wax and entombed in glass
cases, only to attract dust. It wasnTt what I wanted. I wanted to find a perfectly preserved pocket of jam sessions, improvisation, and people out for fun, dressed up, dancing
wildly to ricocheting beats. A vibrant memory of pure American culture had become nothing more than a spot for tourists to gawk and snap photos. Tourists like me.
I was at 18th and Vine, and before I came to Kansas City, I had no idea how important the ground I stood on was. It was where it all happened, a bebop mecca, where
all forms of jazz exploded, where you could walk down the street and expect to hear Charlie Parker or Duke Ellington or Ella Fitzgerald blasting, live, out of the doors of
a part of history, a party | had come to fifty
years too late.
clubs that choked the strip. The ghost of a scene,
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PRINCIPE VALEROSO, R
ENGLISH, CHRIS
Antichristo and Kid Texas knew how to be bad guys. They were heels, but they were good heels. They knew how to lose. They
knew how to build the tension in the audience with their evil techniques. Antichristo and his parade of pagans; spitting blood
breathing fire, blaspheming The Virgin on their way to the ring. Kid Texas and his lanky Anglo body; tall, blonde, and cursing
" us
in Spanglish. They knew their roles. They knew why we paid to see them.
They were bad guys, Los Rudos. They would bite and poke their way through a match until they had El Guapo or some other
Tecnico bleeding from the head or writhing from a nearly broken limb. Then, just as you thought that evil would win, the face
would get a boost of adrenaline, deliver his finishing move, and get the one-two-three. We could cheer then.
We would go back to work the next day, satisfied. We'd talk like children. When the foreman wasnTt near, and we knew we
d spinners, we would recap the action. Dictate the tag lines. RECITE THE CHALLENGES.
wouldn't be heard over the roar of the looms an
Describe the maneuvers.
We were dazzled by Los Tecni
y wore the mantles of justice; sym
and a legend. My grandfather cheered for El Guapo, but he never aged. El Guapo looks
cos. They were more than men, more than Luchadors. They were superheroes. Gods. Ancient
Aztec legends made flesh. The bolic masks passed from generation to generation. Las Mascaras
gave each luchador mystique, longevity,
younger than I do. More alive.
Los Tecnicos were heroes in a way that Norteamericanos donTt understand. They were
John Wayne and Joe Louis. J.F.K. and Joe Namath. They were the good guys. They were
tougher, stronger, smarter, and more charismatic than any of us, but not in a way that
made us angry. They simply gave us hope. They defeated the bad guys.
Those masks, those shiny masks, gave us a link to our fathers, to our sons. Our chil-
dren watch with the same eagerness and anticipation that we do. We share the moment
with them, watching their reactions, leading by example. Like our fathers did. We lose
time and distance in our heroes, the cheers of our children being no less valued than o
ur
own. The masks are a heritage, a tradition. No mask held the tradition like the one worn
by Principe Valeroso, Jr. It was the same design that Principe Valeroso wore ten years ago
It was the same design Pedro Valeroso wore thirty years ago. The same design that Grande
Valeroso the Mexican Giant wore fifty years ago. Principe Valeroso, Jr. was the champion
Our champion.
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PROCEDURES FOR RAD ORDER 90005
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Oscurro Mal came to the ring like death. There was silence in the arena. No cheers. No jeers. Only a dull hum in the house speakers.
Children clung to their fathers and averted their eyes. Even Arturo Rivera, the most vocal of the anuncios and defender of Los Rudos,
quelled his lip. Oscurro Mal was making his entrance, and no one dared disturb him. Blackness covered him, except from his shoul-
ders to his wrists. This mass of rippled flesh between his gloves and tights served as a warning to his opponents, oMuerte de Uno,
Muerte de Todo� tattooed across his forearms. His mask was like no other. There were no decorations, no special markings, only
blackness. The black mask pulled you in. It didnTt reflect the house lights, it didnTt shine, it held a depth. Deepness. It made you
believe in hell. We were afraid of Oscurro. All of us.
We could hear his footsteps. Rubber sole on concrete, but it sounded like the death toll of a funeral march. Twelve steps to the out-
side of the ring and one step up to the apron. OscURRO MAL PUSHED DOWN THE TOP ROPE, SHOWING HIS MASSIVE BACK TO US,
AND STEPPED INTO THE RING.
We could breath again. Oscurro was in the ring now, behind the horizontal bars, stretching and flexing, extending his left arm and
index finger, pointing to Arturo Rivera.
oSenors y Senoritas...Oscurro00000000000000 Mal!�
Then the boos came. We were free to release the tension. We hate Oscurro Mal. Hate him, not because heTs evil, not because heTs the
bad guy. He is those things, but we hate him because he wins. In his fourteen months with the Lucha Libre, he has won eighty-four
matches. From the Peso Plumos to the Peso Completos, he has battled men of all styles and sizes, Rudos and Tecnicos alike. He has
fought against men with chairs, men with chains, and men with partners, but Oscurro Mal has yet to be defeated. No one has come
close to putting his shoulders to the mat, no one has even taken him off of his feet. He has worked his way through Mexico, worked
his way through the ranks, and tonight, he faces the only man left. The champion. Our champion. Principe Valeroso, Jr.
The tension has been building for over a month now. It started when Oscurro Mal faced El Mascara Blanca, Principe Valeroso, Jr.'s
former tag-team partner. Blanca and Valeroso had held the tag belts for six months before Blanca had gone out with an injury. It had
been over a year since Blanca had gone out, and in his first match back, he was carded to face Oscurro Mal. It
would be the last match for El Mascara Blanca.
Oscurro Mal had taken everything Blanca could throw at him. He teetered, tottered even, but never once fell
to the mat. The unthinkable happened that evening. When El Mascara Blanca delivered his famed Un Mortal
Plancha from the top rope, Oscurro caught him. He caught the two-hundred-and-sixty pound Blanca in midair
and sent him to the mat with the Martinete de Muerte, the hammer of death. The ref painfully counted out the
one-two-three, and declared Oscurro Mal the winner. But this was not the end. In a needless display of violent
power, a shameless act of Exceso de Castigo, Oscurro Mal lifted the defenseless Blanca for a second Martinete
de Muerte. Then a third. And a fourth. Fifth. The litter rain filled the ring, women shrieked, children wept, and
we shook our fists. Los Lobos, El Bandito, and other Luchadors stormed the ring. Even Antichristo and Kid
Texas rushed out to the ring to stop the punishment. Oscurro tossed them aside, and removed the mask of El
Mascara Blanca. He took his mantle, took his name, and took his career from him. He peeled away sixty years
of tradition. Our grandchildren will not get to cheer for El Mascara Blanca; they will never know why we did. E]
Mascara Blanca was reduced to Jose Perez in front of everyone. He was no longer a superhero. Just a Mexican.
Like the rest of us.
Principe Valeroso, Jr. had to save us. He was the only one who could. He would face Oscurro Mal for the
championship. Arturo Rivera began the intro.
oSefiors y Seforitas, Principeeeeeee Valerosooo00000000000 Jr.!! Lucharaaaaaaaaaaan! A una sola caida
sin limite de tiempo! Mascara contra mascara, Superrrrrrrrrr Libreeeeeee!�
This match put everything on the line. The mask, the belt, the career. No time limit. No rules. No disqualificat
Valeroso came to the ring, arms stretched to heaven, and the crowd joined him. Like Joshua and his trum-
pets, we shouted unto heaven. He bolted to the ring apron, flipped over the ropes and once again raised his fist
to the air. The roar grew. Like the roar of the looms, it pounded our ears and rattled our heads. Our voices
shook and gargled in our throats. We stomped, clapped, whistled, and praised our Valeroso. He was gracious in
his thanks, bowing in the four directions, then stepping onto the turnbuckle, his hands raised again.
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This was all the opportunity that Oscurro Mal needed. His giant black hand plowed the back of Valeroso. He tumbled
over the third turnbuckle, and spilled onto the floor. Oscurro followed with grace unbecoming a giant. He gingerly
stepped onto the top turnbuckle, and delivered a Tope Suicida onto the downed Valeroso. The impact was frightening.
The Peso Plumos do moves like this all the time, but the heavyweights never even try. We were silent.
Oscurro Mal lifted ValerosoTs limp body and tossed him into the steel guardrails. Valeroso stirred as Oscurro pushed
o| Arturo Rivera from his chair. He folded the weapon, and sent it square against the downed back of our champion.
Tossing the chair aside, he lifted Valeroso and rolled him into the ring. We could see ValerosoTs leg twitching, his eyes
opened. We chanted. oVal-er-os-o! Val-er-os-o! Val-er-os-o! Val-er-os-o!� The walls shook.
s the Principe Valeroso, Jr. began to struggle to his feet. His leg twitching in rhythm to our chant. He stood, just as Oscurro
. Mal stepped over the rope. He bolted toward Oscurro, somersaulted, and planted both feet in OscurroTs chest. The giant
es did not fall. Before Valeroso could get up, Oscurro wrapped his gloved fingers around our championTs throat. He hoisted
se him, one-handed, high into the air, and pounded him to the mat. The chanting stopped. Oscurro towered above
#3 Valeroso. Juggernaut. He stomped and slammed Valeroso over and over. It seemed like forever. Our champion became
limp, lifeless. Oscurro hoisted him up again, setting the motionless body up for a Martinete de Muerte. Valeroso was
ws sprawled on his back, motionless. We screamed. We felt the hands of Oscurro Mal wrap around our throats, swelling
~nto knots. He lifted Valeroso again. Arturo Rivera pleaded over the microphone, but Oscurro stayed his course. A sec-
ond Martinete de Muerte. A third. The cups began to rain inside the ring again. The security guards held on to young
fell men who clamored over the guardrail. Oscurro placed one foot across our fallen champion, and the ref counted. One-
ee two-no. Valeroso lifted his shoulder. The crowd erupted. Valeroso stood up. Oscurro whipped him into the ropes, ready-
dair ing for a scoop slam, but Valeroso lept into a side body block. The blow reeled Oscurro Mal, who stumbled backwards,
ee dazed and cloudy. Valeroso scrambled up, giving Oscurro a spinning-heel kick to the head. The giant dropped to one knee.
oe Valeroso eyed Oscurro, mounted the top rope, and delivered El Mascara Blancas Un Mortal Plancha.
For the first time ever, OscurroTs shoulders touched the canvas. Our voices unto heaven. Trumpets of
ee God. One-two-three. It was over. Principe Valeroso, Jr. had saved us all. We rejoiced.
All of the Luchadors rushed the ring, they handed Valeroso his belt, hoisted him high, and
= watched as Oscurro Mal was forced to remove his mask. He was no longer unstoppable. He was
Mexican again. The Luchadors carried Valeroso out of the arena, and we carried the victory with us
rn cI to work the next day. It was a day of festival, a holy day. Principe Valeroso, Jr. was still the champion.
es Our champion.
We never saw Principe Valeroso, Jr. again.
The Norteamericanos had been there. They saw him as a marketable commodity. They took him to
Atlanta, took away his mask, and billed him as El Chico Loco. He comes out in baggy jeans and gold
jewelry now. Gangsta rap music and fireworks herald his entrance, along with a video of scantly clad
Chicano women in T57 Chevys with hydraulic kits. He claims to be from The West Side, and taunts his
lificat opponents with crotch grabs and gang signs.
o Oscurro works next to me in the textile mill. We eat our lunches and smoke our cigarettes together, and
~a no one has any reason to hate him. On Monday nights, we go to his house to watch the first match
of American wrestling on a fuzzy Texas station. We watch El Chico Loco battle the other Mexican wrestlers
pare that made it to the States. They battle each other over and over, occasionally facing an Anglo cruiserweight.
We never see the whole program. We never watch the main-eventers. They donTt have the appeal that
Valeroso once had. El Chico Loco was never our champion; he will never be theirs. He's just a Mexican. Like
the rest of us.
® ® ®
int
first place, poetry
4
ATION:
lYSICIAN WILL CALL BACK
she trotted back and forth behind the fence
with a look of anxiety
that can only be described
as a dog behind a fence
above anything else
I can tell you a thousand times
ALONE�"�
VUCHNICH, ROBIN
that my poems are mere contemplation
even contrived
with no intention of damage
for you
or the fluff you live in
but you and I are different animals
and from species to species
the translation is lost
much like the time
Pepper dropped a dead bird
before you on the kitchen floor
eager-eyed
beaming with self-satisfaction
it just wants to get inside
where you are
didnTt you understand?
I remember how your face pinched
as you wrapped its mangled body in newspaper
that it was a gift
that it was food
sealed it in a PLASTIC BAG
and stuffed it into the compactor
exiled to the back yard
she could have enjoyed alone
if she hadn't felt that obligation
she must have wondered
where she went WRONG
she must have resolved
that the bird
was too small
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first place, fiction
Tabitha Merriweather comes like a sprightly diva from the
sea oats as though casting off a coat. She moves with the
wind. Her eyes are the color of the ocean, her body like the
dunes, and she waves at me with cheerful enthusiasm.
oThere you are,� she says.
oHere I am.�
oHowTs your luck,� she says.
I say, oItTs lucky.�
She looks at me like ITm an idiot. oYour luck is lucky?�
oLike salt is salty. Like sand is sandy. Like wind is windy.
Like"�
oLike an idiot is stupid.�
oYes,� I say, oexactly.�
She looks at me and does this thing with her head. Her eye-
brows do a thing, too.
oWhy are you out here,� she says.
I look at her and motion towards the beach house. oBecause
ITm not in there.�
ItTs a big one. It stands on stilts. ItTs really quite tall, really,
stilts and all. My T74 Chevy Nova makes a lovel
the stilts. This house is the real deal. And I'm sure it cost the
owners like a million bucks. They're friends of TabithaTs from
Blue Grass, the millinery boutique she owns in fashionable
uptown Charlotte. ItTs one of those postmodern jobs"this
house. With like a hundred rooms. And itTs got a sort of old kind
of quality to it. Really quite nice.
ORE
MOVING FORWARD
FOR
y addition amidst
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MOVING AWA
COCHRAN, STACEY
oYou know what I love about the ocean,T Tabitha says.
oItTs got fish in ty
oThe way it makes me feel ITm not alone.�
oMy old man used to take me fishing,� I say.
oBecause I look out there and I see another world
looking back at me,� she says. oI see beauty and blue and
itTs so vast and yet here | am here.�
oAt this place up the road from our house.�
oYou know.�
ol was this lake had like
oBecause see what was co
water in it.�
oWhich makes for a wonderful setting .. e
oTf someone were writing a story about us.�
I stare at the ocean, watching the fishing line. Tabitha
stares at me disconcerted. She realizes.
oYou know what I like about you, Joe.�
oThe fact that ITm not gay.�
oNo, no, itTs not that. ItTs" itTs"�
oThe fact that ITm a self-employed carpenter with no
work, no money, and immense debt.�
She gives this its due thought. oWell, not really. ItTs
more"
oThe fact that I've motivation to write this story. And
that ITm egocentric and neurotic and think ITm actually
better than I really am.�
oWell, thatTs nice and all but itTs more your"�
oTerrible childteeeeparranerres. oi
ai, A
oNo, your"�
oCapacity for interrupting you.�
oNo, Joe. ItTs that you make me unalone.�
I look at her. She is really quite beautiful. And but ultimately
this realization hurts because I realize she will vanish if my imag-
ination wavers.
oThat's a wonderful word,� I say.
oUnalone?� She asks.
oYes, unalone.�
THE MEETING
This young lady seems pretty concerned about how she looks so I
say she has overy intelligent eyes.� She told me her name is
Tabitha Merriweather. I saw her here in this bookstore for the
first time, beautiful see, and felt alone and driven by underpin-
nings perhaps only understood by me. Perhaps, this is why I am
alone. Perhaps, itTs why I've met her. Only I realize what is real to
me. Some fortune. Some gift. ItTs what makes me who I am. ItTs
what makes my mind click beautifully like a metronome in perfect
rhythm with this awareness and yet isolated forever in the zone.
She hovers like God, like an angel, like imagination when one
sees only clear skies and endless blue, and I often float there
alone in this euphoria. It all begins in a bookstore.
I am searching for the latest Salinger novel or a response from
God, whichever comes first, and am beginning to have an anxiety
attack because this new Salinger novel is nowhere to be found
and a response from God isnTt exactly forthcoming either and my
pulse feels like itTs doing 140 and I may be sweating and people
might be looking at me funny-like and I could be drooling and
it's possible that I might very well be speaking in tongues. It
seems like I might be. Salinger has that affect on me. So does
Updike. And those Taco Bell commercials with the Chihuahua.
And HeideggerTs Being and Time. And the beer section at Winn-
Dixie. And drive-thru speakers. And exercise. And tying my shoes
sometimes, when itTs really, really hot.
The lady in charge of my substance abuse treatment class Pam
says itTs because I over-intellectualize, which she says is a form of
denial and so I admitted that I was so far in denial that I was in
Sudan, which she said was just another form of denial and then
sort of stared at me like I was an idiot and/or a reprobate, which
I'm not necessarily convinced ITm not but like this roofer named
Demetrius said, oThat's funny, man. Sudan. Funny, man.�
And so here I am, alone, without a response from God and a
Salinger novel circa 1951 in hand, in this bookstore, when I see
her. Imagine. She is hovering over copies of The New Yorker, The
Atlantic Monthly, and HarperTs reading the same story told three
different ways by three different writers from three different Ivy
League programs.
oHow do you do,� I say to her.
oHi,� she says.
She wears a green felt hat with a big yellow flower on it. Her
eyes are as blue as the center of the ocean. She wears a pair of
jeans and a fluffy, white sweater. She smells fresh and sweet like
fruit, like papaya and mangoes.
oHarper's,� I say motioning toward her magazine. oThat's good
stuff. Do you like it?�
oOh, this story is very good.�
ae:
oItTs about this guy and this girl,� she says.
oPretty original then.�
She smiles. oWell, yes, itTs about this guy and this girl and they
meet in this bookstore and the guy see is sort of this metaphor for
the contemporary writer and the girl sheTs sort of this angelic kind
of metaphor for God. She hovers, see. And she like
changes form and they go to this beach place where she
changes form and becomes the beach or the sand or
maybe the dunes, and | think the author was implying that
the narrator was a fish or maybe the water and that the two
were different and yet connected. He makes the beginning
the end of it all"sort of like life, you know.�
| laugh. She smiles.
oHe was changing form, too, with her,� she says. oAnd
content.�
| look at her. There's a genuine sparkle of wit in her eyes.
oForm and content,� | say. oI like that.�
She looks at me for a moment, and smiles.
oHow about this one,� | say motioning to, oThe New
Yorker. That's top-of-the-line stuff. Elite. Best writers in the
world,�
oYes, well, this story's different, though. ItTs got its own
style.�
oHow so?�
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Bewilderment would best describe my feelings at this moment.
The phone line is silent for a while. I am speechless, I realize.
oWhat is love to you,� she says. oA game?�
oNo,� I say.
oA mathematical equation or something,� she says. oPlug the
right numbers in and ka-ching you get what you want.�
oI donTt think that at all,� I say. oMathematics is the farthest
thing from my mind when I think of love.�
oYou probably lie about your true feelings, too,� she says.
oWhat is honesty to you?�
I am bewildered, I say. That is honest.
So your ignorance is honesty, she says.
I know that I donTt know a lot of things.
oWelcome to reality, Joe,� she says. oThat's life.�
We are silent for some time. I am thinking of exactly what I
want to say. ItTs as though my life depends upon it. Because I
realize eloquence is the ticket to the show in this town and if you
ainTt eloquent you ainTt getting into the show.
oI'd like to share some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
with you,� I say.
oSome what?� She asks.
oChocolate chip cookie dough ice cream,� I say. oYou said at
the bookstore it was your favorite flavor. I would like to share
some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream with you.�
oAnd just what is that supposed to mean,� she says.
SLOW MOTION
Her lips are moist and warm and come together with mine like a
pair of lonely bumper cars bumping head-on into one another"
it's quite romantic. ITm sure sparks fly. ItTs been three weeks since
we met at the bookstore. Up close TabithaTs hair smells like
papaya-scented shampoo and is soft and smooth like silk or satin
or like well-shampooed hair thatTs been shampooed with papaya-
scented shampoo. If I were eloquent I'd say something like it was
oredolent of those summers on Glen Cove when we were young
and knew we were so much older.� Our noses collide"I may be
in love.
We're on this sidewalk, see, in twinkling midtown Charlotte.
The night is peaceful. And it is the first time we've been together
: GALINE, K MR/RAD NO:3¥Y-13-33 ROOM:
09/09/1990
TEMP :
PT.STATUS: OA
CLINIC:
PT SEX: M RACE: W
PATIENT LOCATION:
like this; i.e., itTs the first time ITve opted for physical contact. I enjoy listening to her"her voice
is calm and soothing no matter the subject. It is pleasant but not without spine. She has dim-
ples. She is lively. She is quite possibly the most extraordinary woman I have ever met.
We've come together here like six or seven times in the three weeks since we met at the book-
store"pretty good for two people who prior to meeting one another had not been on a date in
a combined fourteen months. There are these sidewalk cafés that serve fresh coffee until like ten
or eleven o'clock, and we've spent the evening tonight sitting under the stars and the clear sky
amidst the shiny glass buildings of midtown, listening and talking with one another. The side-
walk lamplights here along Market Street gleam in the night, and traffic moves along casually.
Tabitha wears this aqua velour hat, which tapers back like a fin. oItTs OhrbachTs Oval,� she
says. I donTt know what that means, I say, but I tell her that I like it. ItTs a pretty hat, I say. I'd like
to see more of your hats. They're very nice, I say. I donTt think ITve ever seen a hat quite like that
one, I say. ItTs pretty unique. If I were a head, I say, ITd be happy with that hat. She laughs at me.
We stand there for a moment in the lambent light coming from the main floor lobby of Sharon
Tower. The night is peaceful and clear and warm and I see the traffic light at the corner turn
from red to green. And I say, I like you, Tabitha Merriweather. I feel completely comfortable with
you, you know. And she looks at me for a moment. And I look at her. And then suddenly I lean
forward, sort of off-balance, and she watches me. And her lips come together and her dimples
rise and she smiles the absolute most incredibly pretty smile I have ever seen in my entire life
and but ITm standing there sort of leaning, you know, my lips aiming to kiss her lips and she
realizes I must feel pretty awkward in this particular position and I realize this is why she smil-
ing at me. And then she sort of leans forward kind of off-balance, too, and she whispers that
she really likes me, too. And I sort of whisper, oNo kidding"yeah?� And she says, yeah. And we
do this thing. We kiss.
DINING WITH THE TRUTH
We've come together here for lunch some fourteen days and ten street blocks from where
Tabitha and I first kissed. Midtown Charlotte. We're at a sidewalk table in front of the joint and
the sky is clear blue. A breeze blows cooly, ruffling the tablecloth. Traffic passes casually along up
the street.
She seems to enjoy this joint, KildaireTs, an Irish tavern and eatery, where we're having lunch
for what I'd bet is the seventh time in seven days. She enjoys the gourmet beers, she says, and I
must confess I've maybe glanced a time or two at the tall, cylindrical, crystalline glass filled lush-
ly with a deep, rich, amber malt, a beautiful wisp of white foam looking somewhat like freshly
driven snow atop what ITm sure is the thickest, purest blend of barley and hops ever brewed in
the history of Irish beer manufacturing.
ITm managing through an unsweetened iced tea. And some sort of sandwich. I count the bub-
bles, rising inside her beer, which Tabitha uses to wash down a toasted, crisp, vegetable pita
overflowing with juicy tomatoes, green peppers, sauerkraut, and melted Swiss, Colby, and
Monterey Jack cheeses. My sandwich looks cold, white, and flat. I watch her raise the glass to
her perfect, round lips and gracefully, sensuously sip the McGentryTs freshly tapped, aged and
malted beer. I read here on the menu that they roast the barley and hops over a cedar-smoked
fire, and the kegs are made of hickory oIn Ye Olde Irish Style� in which the secret McGentry
family recipe ferments for no less than seven months before being broken open by a swivel, steel
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THE LIAR
CONNECTION WITH THE REAL
oTonight I'd like to talk about the various forms of lying,� Pam says. oFirst though, | should say
that any form of lying about an alcohol or substance problem is the worst form of denial.�
| look around the room wishing to be anywhere other than here. There's a confrontation with
truth stirring in the air tonight. A dozen of us are here this evening, including Pam. The room is
well-lighted, and the air conditioner is on. It is cool. We sit on the sofas and chairs and have
formed a horseshoe shape with Pam and her easel before us. Pam is dressed in a pretty blue,
ankle-length dress and a white button-up blouse. She pushes her oval-lensed glasses up on her
nose but they keep slipping back down. Her hair is shoulder-length and curly brown. I'd guess
sheTs in her early thirties.
We meet twice weekly on Tuesday and Thursday evenings for two hours in the recreation
room at the brick-walled, well-windowed mental health building at Mecklenburg County
Hospital. There's a skylight ceiling in the main lobby. Here, in the recreation room, there's a
kitchenette which gives onto the session area with sofas and lounge chairs for us to sit in. There
d evenly around the room, and there's a magazine rack against one wall,
are green plants space
and the session area opens onto a backdoor patio where the smokers smoke during break. I've a
serious preoccupation with death and dying and as such donTt smoke, but I like to sit out there
on the patio and listen to the conversation.
There's a fellow who joins us on the patio: Cochran. HeTs been in the program as long as any
of us and is good at putting us at ease and/or making us laugh. He's one of those rare people
whose personality ~s an odd mixture of a wholesome, good-natured quality, blended with a
warped sense of reality; i.e., his very personality is ironic. And he can make people laugh just by
the way in which he walks into a room. One can only imagine how different his parents must
be. There's this genuine sincerity about him which is touching and affecting but that when nec-
essary"when the invisible line that marks the boundary between sincerity and sentimentality is
breached"he is capable of towing n with wit and sarcasm. He has a way with people. He gets
us to talk.
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something and say that Is right
right and wrong?�
ys pointing to the chart on the easel beside
oOver-intellectualizing,� Pam sa
s form eight of denial, Joe. You're
to look the truth square on and
the truth. Is love truth? Is deat
evading the truth.�
her, owa
I'll do it,� I say. oI want noth-
oTell me how
ing more than to know h? Is there any truth to
words? ItTs all a bunch of fucking fictional words
my being here speaking these
strung together.�
oI sense avoidance,� she says.
e room and several of the guys roll their eyes at me. Cochran
I look around th
ning.
his in. He seems like heTs liste
n"well, those are
sits on the sofa taking all t
oI can relate, man,� he says. oTruth. Love. Men and wome
the riddles that've puzzled us all for ages aren't they?�
oWhat do you mean,T I say.
e room at each of the guys individually. He connects with
He looks around th
his eyes, and then he looks directly at me and makes me feel as though I'm
there"that I matter.
No one says anything for a moment. I can hear the rattle of t
tside in the hallway, the sh
hroat. I look at him: Coch
uffle of a foot on the car
muffled voices ou
ran. He is staring at the
one lightly clearing his t
pet, deep in thought.
he central AC,
pet, some-
car-
oSo what happened,� I find myself saying. oYou and her?�
He looks up at me for a moment, catches my line of vision.
He realizes ITm listening, that ITm interested.
o1 donTt know, man,� he says. oI donTt know. I'd give every-
thing I have to be with her. I want to earn her love.�
There's a pause where I think everyone wants to say some-
thing reassuring but itTs the kind of thing that really canTt be
reassured"at least not with words. And that's what the
moment calls for: a nothingness that means everything. It
sounds absurd. But it is appropriate, I realize. This silence.
oShe canTt trust me,� he says after several moments. oI
broke a trust with her that I'll probably never earn back, no
matter how honest I am from here forward...She doesn't
want to love me, this is what she says. And ITve no right to
blame her.�
We are all silent.
oHonesty, fellows. ItTs as valuable as life itself. I'd give
everything I have just to have her back. We used to en the
ocean together, man. She loved the beach. She loved to watch
me standing there before the waves, before the surf"fishing.
She'd lay there on the dunes, blending in, watching me in the
ocean. Peaceful. For hours.�
ACTION
ThereTs an understated quality to TabithaTs boutique here
among these other shops and salons with names like Vidoré
and Augustes. The sign above the place reads BLUE GRASS
MILLINERY and there are two windows on either side of the
single, front door. | didn't sleep well last night. It was what
Cochran said: his words stayed with me. So I resolved at like
5:00 a.m. that today, I would tell Tabitha the truth.
A bell jingles as I enter. There are a few customers brows-
ing over various styles, looking at themselves in mirrors. A
college girl works the counter, and Tabitha stands with a cus-
tomer before a mirror. The lady she is helping is gray-haired
and pleasant looking. She looks from the hat in her hand to
Tabitha, to the mirror, then places the hat on her head and
regards it closely.
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oOh, I like this,� the elderly lady says.
She has a soft, clear voice. She wears an olive-colored dress with
white flower prints on it and a matching white shawl. A white
handbag rests neatly at her side.
oThis is our woven straw topper,� Tabitha says.
She looks and sees me, smiles, and concentrates on the elderly
lady. All I can think is: ITm an alcoholic. ITm an alcoholic. Tabitha, I
have something I need to tell you: ITm a stinking drunk.
oThis is such a nice hat,� the elderly lady says.
I've been in a treatment program since before I met you. ITve kept
this from you the entire time we've dated.
oOh, dear,� the elderly lady says. oDo you think it a bit much for
a church hat?�
Tabitha looks at her.
oWhy, I think it'd be perfect for church,� she says. oIt looks very
lovely.�
Tabitha smiles politely, sincerely.
oYou donTt think it too risqué,� the elderly woman says. oI mean
is it proper for church?�
I'm a drunkard and a louse, as was my father and his father, and
his father before him. I come from a long line of drunks and louses.
We've a distinction for being wonderful louses.
oIt makes a statement,� Tabitha says; she smiles at the lady. oBut,
Miss Pauline, itTs a statement that's very becoming for you.�
Miss Pauline looks at me standing there ten feet away. I am
browsing over several really cool looking hats. oExcuse me, young
man.�
oMe,� I say.
oYes, may I have your opinion on this hat,� she asks. oDo you
think it proper?�
oProper?�
oYes, appropriate for church, you know?�
oWell, ITm no expert on that subject,� I say.
oWell, do you like it?�
I look at the hat. ItTs a nice looking hat.
oSure, I like it,� I say. "ItTs a nice looking hat.�
Miss Pauline walks over toward me. She regards me circumspect-
ly, her eyes sizing me up. TheyTre a very light shade of green, her
pupils are narrowed. I feel as though ITm being judged. It is odd, I
know, but I feel as though sheTs looking me over for flaws.
oVery nice,� I say.
oDo you think so,� she says. oReally?�
oYes, ma'am,� I say. oAnd it matches the green of your eyes beauti-
fully.�
She looks at Tabitha, then back to me, amused.
oNow, this is a charming young man,� she says. oSo thoughtful
and sincere.�
ITm an alcoholic. ITve lied for two months. ITm evil. ITm a male.
oYes, ITm quite sure of it,� Miss Pauline says turning her eyes back
to me. oYou've eyes that would never lie. ITm sure some young lady
must be quite lucky.�
oThat's one word for it,� I say.
oYes, I'm sure some young lady must be,� Tabitha says.
At this moment, I believe Miss Pauline realizes Tabitha and I
know each other, but if she does she gives no hint of it. She returns
to the mirror and checks the hat. Tabitha gives me a pretty smile.
oT'll take it,� Miss Pauline says. oMuch in part to the honest
opinion of this young man.�
Miss Pauline gives me a keen, confidential glance. She's very per-
ceptive, I realize. She knows.
oWell, the management of Blue Grass Millinery certainly thanks
him.� Tabitha smiles at me. And walks with Miss Pauline to the
counter.
Tabitha comes to me a few moments later. She wears a silk blouse
and the fabric rises like crests and waves shimmering with her
movement. Her deep blue eyes look pleasantly surprised to see me.
And her sandy blonde hair is soft and tousled. She is the most
beautiful woman I have ever seen. And I am compelled to speak
beyond my own will. ItTs hard to breathe and I swallow.
oTabitha, I've something I need to tell you.�
She looks at me as though a cold wind just blew over her face.
oWhat is it, Joe?�
I look around the store at the other customers. They stand in
pretty frock coats or sweaters. They carry handbags and drift around
the store like timber atop a sea.
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Do you have somewhere we can go,� I say. oThis is important.�
oSure, Joe.� She looks at me, her brow furrowing, and then calls to the college
girl behind the register that she'll be stepping out for a few minutes.
Outside on the sidewalk along Trade Street, the air has turned cool and crisp.
The sun is shining. Leaves have begun turning red and orange and yellow in the
trees that line the sidewalk. The sky is blue. A bree
beautiful, and for a moment sunlight glances off her
ze stirs TabithaTs hair. She is
and I realize time has shift-
ed into a lower gear, and she turns her head as though in slow motion to look
the other. Her face is soft and there are light freckles
one way up the street then
idge of her nose. Her eyes are eyes that I could
on her cheeks and over the br
look at the day I die, and I'd feel as though life was worth livin
else I've ever seen.
g. They're as close
to looking at the ocean as anything
We step inside a joint several blocks up: The Station Pier, 4 trendy joint with
upscale midtown Charlotte professionals. The lighting is turned low. There's a
ce and a large mirror behind the bar.
bar stretching along the right side of the pla
There are tables to our left. ItTs the kind of place where one could easily blend
into the coral walls at one of the tables or booths. There are 4 good number of
folks here and true blues music plays softly over the speakers.
[ look up and a woman bumps into me. She has a bottle of beer in her hand.
oExcuse me,� she says.
and bump into another person"@ large fellow in
I manage a smile. And turn
ourbon and ice in his hand and a shiny gold
a silk suit. He has a tumbler of b
wristwatch on his wrist.
oExcuse me there, buddy,� he says.
oExcuse me,� I say-
| turn and see Tabitha has gained a few feet on me and is at a table. A group of
ladies on their lunch break suddenly come from nowhere and I am caught
amidst them. One has a margarita, another a Heineken, and another a German
import.
oPardon me, excuse me, pardon me,� I say.
oWatch it, buddy,� one of them says.
1 look across at Tabitha who has reached a table.
oLook out!� This guy shouts at me- oComing through!�
He nearly runs me down with a large silver keg of beer on 4 dolly cart. He's
moving at a good clip. I dive out of the way and bump into 4 waitress floating
along with a tray of drinks.
oWatch where you're going, pal,� she says:
She adjusts the tray, and I stand there for a moment drifting and then I real-
ize I'm in her way. oIf you donTt mind,� she says, motioning for me to get the hell
out of her way.
I swirl out of her way adrift on the current, and I see Tabitha waving at me
from the table. I return the wave, and she motions over tO the bar. She wants me
to get her a drink. And so I make my way t the bar. There's 4 suited crowd
around the bar and I swim through them and reach the bar.
oChianti,� I say. oA glass of Chianti.�
The bartender nods. I look one way up the bar and then the
other. Everyone seems to be having a good time. I look up at the
mirror behind the bar and I see a beach and me lying there
alone in the sand looking up at the clear blue sky, an occasional
wave reaching me. The water feels warm over my feet and legs. I
might just die there. I might.
oFive bucks,� the bartender says.
| hand her a ten and swim back through the crowd. TabithaTs
over there like a beacon, like a buoy. And she waves me in.
She says, oThank you.�
| look into her deep, blue eyes and realize I'd give
everything that | am to have this moment captured
in words.
o1 almost died twice last year,� I say.
Her eyebrows furrow with concern.
oItTs something I've been keeping from you,� I say. oBoth
times I was drinking. Very heavily.�
She looks at me. And I realize she understands the absurdity
of the moment.
oYes,� she says.
oT didn't know whether or not I even wanted to live,� I say. oI
suppose I did"want to live. Otherwise, I'd be dead.�
Tabitha tries smiling, but it's not funny. And I realize the
truth never is"funny.
oWhat happened,� she asks.
oT saw no reason to live. I was drinking like a madman"had
been"for five solid years. Some days I'd come home and drink
a half gallon of wine in the afternoon. I'd drink until I wasn't
afraid anymore. There were people I was with"people I
knew"people who hurt as much as I did, I suppose. People
who didnTt care. Didn't care whether I was alive or dead. Didn't
care whether they were alive or dead. It didnTt make much
difference. Only, I had this desire. I didnTt want to die.�
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She looks at me. We are silent for some time.
oWhat were you afraid of?� She asks.
I think about this.
oI think I was afraid of being cheated by the world. Like earn-
ing a life was the ultimate sham of this existence. You know?�
oIs that how it is,� she says. oIs that how you see it?�
oIt's tough,� I say. oLife isnTt easy. But we do it. We're here. We
do what we do. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we hurt like
there isnTt a hurt that could hurt any worse. You hope to find a
balance.�
We look at each other. It isnTt all bad. Tabitha looks at me with
her eyes"those amazing eyes. They're filled with life, with hope,
with strength, with an individual belief as great as any woman's I
have ever met.
oItTs like a ship,� I say. oItTs like a ship on the sea. You're forever
moving forward"moving ahead, you know? And you're forever
asking yourself if all this feels right. Is it the right direction"you
know? And yet you're forever moving forward, forever moving
away from the only places you've ever known. The only people
you've ever known. The things you think feel right.�
I look into her eyes.
oDo you feel this way,� she says. oThat all this is right? Do you
see it that way?�
I look at her as naked as a man can be. oTabitha, itTs the only
right way I know how to feel.�
We are at this place for some time. People move by us. There is
noise"conversations, orders being taken, laughter. We look at
each other.
FOLLOWING MY CONFESSION
She came by my workshop today. ItTs been three days since I told
her the truth. ITve put myself completely into my work so as not to
think about how all of this makes me feel. I was working on a chif-
fonier. It was very hot because the air conditioner had gone out,
and summer was stealing days back from fall. I had not expected to
see her.
She said, oHi.�
We stood there for awhile. Sweat was beaded on my forehead.
She looked at me. I felt awkward. I realized she was either thinking
about; a) how she could let me go without hurting me any worse
than I'd already hurt myself, b) whether I was maybe worth further
effort, and/or c) the ramifications of what my telling her something
as important as I had meant about my general trustworthiness
skills and my capabilities for behaving responsibly in terms of any
sort of long-term commitment with her.
oTabitha, ITm not perfect,� I said.
oNobodyTs asking you to be.�
oI think I ask it of myself,� I said.
oYou take life way too seriously, Joe.�
oBullshit,� I said. oI am comfortable when I know I can believe
in someone. When they can believe in me. When we trust one
another. I enjoy life just as well as the next person, when I've some-
one I can share this trust with. It just seems like every time I put
myself on the line and I say to hell with it ITm gonna put myself out
there anyway, even though rejection is always part of the equa-
tion"a major part of life"pretty much all my life consists of"and
but I donTt let the possibility of rejection stop me from getting involved with people,
oIt's taller.�
the hell does anyone need a nightstand for, right?�
with being true to myself. You know? It just seems like I have to keep going to the
plate even though every woman I've met like in the past five years of my life is so
much more skilled at this"life"than me. You know?�
She just stared at me the way so many people stare at me; itTs that ois this guy an
idiot or just plain stupid� stare. Then, she looked at what I was working on.
oNice looking chiffonier," she said.
oOh, yeah. You like it?"
oWhat do people need a chiffonier for anyway?"
oWell, they keep stuff in it.�
oThey keep stuff in it."
oAnd I'm putting a mirror on here."
oBut wouldn't a dresser be better? | mean a chiffonier is so narrow."
oBut you could store more stuff in a dresser."
oThis one is going to come with a dresser,� I said. oThey wanted both, the couple
thatTs paying me to build it for them. And they wanted two nightstands, too. But what
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And but he doesnTt even bother. He just goes on talking with her and sort of tucks the phone down a little bit and mouths oCash or Credit?� and
so I show him the twenty I plan to buy my Quality Hanes Sport Shirt with and he keeps right on talking with her in this low, soft, nice voice and
pushes a button on the register and rings me up and takes my money and doesnTt break stride with his conversation there on the phone.
And so like I turn around and there's this woman pushing a shopping cart up the aisle and sheTs talking with someone on a cellular phone.
And sheTs got a little girl in the shopping cart who has a plastic toy phone and is apparently talking with someone herself. And like I have the
incredible urge to run to the nearest phone and/or get the hell out of this Sears and so I start hurrying out of there and I turn the corner there
inside Sears and there's like fifty phones staring up at me from the electronics department and they're all shiny and clean and brand new and
then all of a sudden they all ring and I just about faint and but I look up and see that the associates are working on a display and so I focus on
the door of Sears because I gotta get out of there and like this guy walks in with a briefcase and is talking away on his phone. And at the door-
way of Sears there's a row of payphones Staring at me and by the time ITm in the parking lot ITm like in full stride and but three or four more
people have passed me with cellular phones all gabbing away having great conversations.
And so ITm fumbling with the keys to unlock my T74 Chevy Nova and get the hell out of there and I've just about got in my car when I hear
another phone ring in the car parked beside me and I look in there and this phone is sitting there ringing away in some guyTs car who gets so
many phone calls he leaves his damn cellular phone in the car.
HOOKED
Tabitha comes by my place seven days later. It is dusky outside, and traffic moves along Indepedence Blvd. at the head of my apartment
complex. I stand there in the doorway looking at her. Her eyes are like the ocean and as endless as a shoreline. She looks at me earnestly
for a moment and then for some reason she smiles. I see the lights around the clubhouse and pool have come on and are twinkling, and
the grass looks fresh and green and wet. The sky is clear, and the colors of sunset blend smoothly into those of evening.
oCome inside,� I say.
It's been twelve days since she said she~d call and she never called and but I know she was doing what was right. I put my belief in her.
I was writing this story when she knocked on the door. I'd gotten the idea for writing this story the
first time I met her at the bookstore and she said she'd been reading a story in The New Yorker about this
Hunter S. Thompsonesque guy who falls in love with this Arlesienne waitress and but ultimately she ends
up leaving him though the author is really, really subtle about this fact and never actually says she leaves
him but that like she becomes words in a letter that heTs writing to a former lover.
Well, thatTs the idea. See, this story is kind of like a letter ITm writing to a past love, telling her how
much I love her and how she is the only woman with whom I've ever felt what I consider spiritual in
nature and that I'd give everything that I have just to have her back because loneliness is like death and I
really, really donTt want to die just yet.
She has a kit of shiny, fishing lures with her. And I notice the contours of her breasts through the thin
fabric of her dress.
oThey're for surf fishing,� she says.
oSurf fishing?�
oYes, the guy in the sporting goods department told me mackerel really love these things.�
oMackerel?� I say.
She moves around my place like a ripple on top of water, and so I pour her a glass there in the kitchen
watching the graceful crests of her body beneath the cotton fabric of her dress swaying gently back and
forth. ItTs an ocean blue sundress. I hand her the water and she takes it rather casually and says "thank
you� and ITm standing there looking at her present and I think ITm mesmerized and sort of under a spell,
and I realize by her gift sheTs telling me either: a) that she'd like me to come with her to the beach as she'd
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c) neither of these, which would mean i)Ir
which would mean 2) I read perfectly fine but s en her love and realize that
her not only wanting to love me but that needing to love me may very well be about the most fright-
aken. It is the various possibilities that concern me.
ening leap of faith she's ever t
oThey're supposed to be spawning this time of year,� she says:
oSpawning?� I say.
oThe mackerel.�
oYes?� 4
oand these came with a lifetime guarantee, she says. oSee, here.T
She points to something on the package, but my eyes haven't left hers since I gave her the water.
She hands me the kit. a
oT bought them for you,� she says. Pd 5
I take them. ene
oThey're beautiful,� I say without once losing sight of her.
[ stand there looking at her. She looks at me with eyes that I absolutely know [ could look at for ~
the rest of my life. It is a kind of horizon, like the ocean joining the sky. And then in a moment of ¥
time I realize I will never forget, she looks at me with those eyes and I feel her smile. I feel her feel it ° a
is completely right. A
oWhat do you think,� she says. "
oWhat do I think,� I say. ~
oAbout the surf,� she says. oAbout you and I together at the surf.� 18
There's a moment where | think her name, oTabitha,� and I think the word ocosmic� and I think ee $
and I think we both realize this o
a
the word omystical� and sheTs looking at me and ITm looking at her
ost incredible gift ever given.
ize that what we have is the m
connection together. I think we both real
lete and total perfection.
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eel her realize that it is right, and the moment comes together with comp
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he leans forward as to place her arms around m rs eyes.
e, and we look into each othe
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it started, we think, before her. [
she was the kind we put
into our hospital at sweet sixteen,
crisscrossed agony marks on arms,
smoking cigarettes in our pebbly courtyard SMITH, D. MICCAH
with boys whose worried parents
call from cell phones
time ticks, dog barks,
sheTs at home by now,
going to be an artist.
she shows you her drawings; once she made cookies with a friend
you paper walls with these
, (too much nutmeg!), given in haste to a neighbor
and SPEND A DAY in your room maybe
and laughed all the way home.
a 22? o you're in the kitchen at the counter, you smiled too, with eyes like jagged glass
a green-sunny window where light pools only cutting inside, only bleeding from behind.
onto spidery plants tiptoeing in dishwater HOW COULD THEY KNOW BY LOOKING?
your daughter goes away, to school, to love, to live
and kitchen light waxes darker with seasons.
so we took you to our hospital too,
rRIED TO SHAKE YOU LOOSE FROM HIDDEN CAGES;
you were crouched so far down there,
and could only stay
plants grow, leaves fall,
your husband sleeps under silent white sheets
in some lonely Florida hotel room
(is he all right? does he think of me? will he come back?)
your daughter's car creeps along a shadowed road
WE DID NOT MEAN FOR IT TO BE THIS WAY,
NOT FOR HER TO FIND YOl
A
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DANIELS, BOBBI
SESSIONS
| START
| NOTATIONS
|
(a)
uu
1)
O
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SYMPTOMS DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR
ILLUSIONS
HALLUCINATIONS
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third place, fiction
HICKENS .
enGuiSt, CHRIS
ShondaTs three-and-a-half inch clogs were the devilTs hooves and each curve of her told of wet and fleshy sins. Calves
ry taut and smooth; tight, shiny, and hypnotic. A dress that clung at the hips,
exposed, lying naked below w
pulled at the thighs, and finished long
before it reached the knee. Her bellybutton was hat little top she wore. The immodest
7 blouse covered the bottom half of her breasts, pushing the rest up and out. Little dots of perspiration were forming
A there, joining together, and trickling down between. Black skin gleamed through the sweat and Solomon prayed to
stop looking, prayed that The Good Rever
)
OT Jesus. Prayed to Jesus that he could end Doctor hadn't
noticed him looking. Prayed to Jesus.
and wiped the sweat, and he
followed the red-chipped press-ons back to
Her hand came up
the arm of the chair. They made a scrape, screech, and snap as she drug them across, digging in
until they broke. Shonda jerked a little, and threw her head back over the top of the wicker chair.
Tossing and turning while the little pieces of broken wicker pulled at her braids. They were
unraveling, her and the hair. Breaking free.
nd wonde
ring what it would feel like. How salty it must I
PATIENT IDE\}}
couldn't help looking at her skin a
and flows. To smell her. To
Solomon
e, where the sweat gathers
be. If he were to bend a little, and place his lips ther
push between her knees.
posing teeth that were blinding against her
gasped, her red lips pursed, ex
Shonda writhed, heaved and
undulated in the chair, her ski
dark face. She pulled her legs up and +t bunched, fully exposing her naked-
ness. Moaned. Twisted. Convulsed.
ght about being inside her. Wa neath him. He could feel
't stop looking. Stop thinking
wn. He felt it. Down there. W
Solomon thou tching her move like that under
about her moan. It came to his ear and tingled.
her breath. He couldn
arm and wet. He wanted to thank her for it.
Traveled. Worked its way do
ady breath. She looked
Shonda collapsed into the chair, closed her eyes, and began a slow ste
x or seven years older than Solomon, and he watched as
different. Peaceful. She was probably si
h an old coat.
The Good Reverend Doctor covered her wit
"Solomon...cage up da cheeken now.
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oYessir Reverend.�
It was Solomon's job to get everything put up before he went down to the river. Blow out the can-
dles, sweep up the chalk, and cage up the chicken. The Good Reverend Doctor kept the Bible, but
everything else went into the suitcase.
Runaways tend to be easy converts, and the same had held true with Solomon. The only church he
knew was the temple his grandfather had taken him to, and that parental dispute ended with sirens
and hospitals. At ten years of age he'd set out for the territories and waited in a tree by the river for
his Jim.
oZaccheus, you come down, for ITm gone to your house today!�
oMy name ainTt Zaccheus.�
oWell, come on down anyway. You tink your folks got food for a managod?�
oNosir...1 ainTt got polks or food.�
oWhatchore name boy?�
oSolomon.�
oKing Solomon! Da wise and favored of God! Maybe we find food for both us den?�
He stayed with The Good Reverend Doctor after that. Solomon learned all about how the demon of alco-
hol had gotten into his daddy. He learned that poor white folks like his daddy and mamma were very open to
demons and that if he wasnTt careful, one could get a hold of him someday. The Good Reverend Doctor
taught him how to pray to Jesus that it wouldn't happen.
They always seemed to grab the attention of the folks in town. The Good Reverend Doctor with his
dark skin and wide smile in a pearlescent white suit. He wore old two-tone saddle shoes that showed
sock here and there, and a large crucifix on a twine necklace. His hair natty and locked, reaching his
shoulder in black ropes made him sage-like. It gave his face wisdom. At forty-two he looked all of sixty.
They seemed odd together, and for that reason they shied from places and people that worried about
those things. Besides, most of the demons can be found in the country. City folks are corrupt enough,
they donTt have to be possessed to go to hell.
Solomon wrestled the chicken back in its cage and closed everything else up in the suitcase.
oAlright boy, git on down to da rivah.�
oYessir Reverend.�
Solomon always hated this part; drowning the chicken in the river. He has to take them to the river, find a
brick or a rock to tie to their feet, and toss them in as far as he can. It seemed like a waste of a good chicken,
but he knew it was the only way to make sure the demons didnTt get loose. This was the process that
Solomon had learned from The Good Reverend Doctor. Tie the chicken to a chair and have the possessed
person sit down. Draw the binding circle on the floor, light the candles, and pray the demon out. The demon
has nowhere to go but right inside the chicken. The Good Reverend Doctor had drowned every demon on his
island so he had to come to the States to keep up The LordTs Work. Solomon liked helping, but he still
thought it was a waste of a good chicken.
The demon in this chicken was the demon of having-a-lot-of-sex-with-a-lot-of-people. Salomon hed
drowned two of those this week along with a demon of playing-poker, a demon of shooting-dope, and a
demon of canTt-keep-a-steady-job-or-pay-rent-on-time. People in Louisiana have a lot of demons. He figured
they would spend most of the year here.
filled it with sand and tied it to so}
a length of twine. The chicken went on th
e oth d P
hold, calm, and tie at the same time. er end and Solomon struggled ¢
Solo f issi
mon found an old mason jar that was missing a jagged piece on top. The lid was still usable though
we
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oNow Jesus...you drown this demon good, and don't let nobody pish-up and eat this
chicken. Amen.�
Chickens always try to fly, like they don't know they canTt. Solomon watched the mason jar skim
across the water as the chicken beat and flapped to maintain altitude. It wasn't his best throw, but
he had sent the chicken a good 15 feet in before it hit water. Solomon could see the slack in the line
as the chicken splashed about. The line was either too long or the water was too shallow. Either way,
he had to go in and send it out farther.
Solomon hiked up his slacks and sat down to take off his shoes and socks. He looked at his pale
white feet and thought about Shonda. Skin so dark, so be
he demon, free from sin. Free to live like decent folks.
autiful. He wandered what would happen
to her now, now that she was free. Free from t
He felt the air in his stomach when he tried to visualize her, felt his throat knot. The bareness
exposed under her skirt flashed in his skull. He couldn't help it. He felt it tingle again and whispered
a prayer to Jesus to make it stop. Sin was as much in thought as in deed.
Pulling the chicken back to shore was a little harder than Solomon anticipated. He was wet to the
waist and scolding himself for leaving the twine so long.
oThis water is plenty deep for chicken drowninT, just you wait demon. nf
It only took a few minutes to cut the line and retie it to the jar. With his left hand pressing the
chickenTs feet down underneath, and his right holding the jar agai
whispered to Jesus and threw with all his might. The chicken went high, but
nst the chicken's back, Solomon
not far. ItTs path was
heavenward, directly over Solomon's head.
Solomon watched the white chicken contrast against the sky. Honey-colored sun passed through
its feathers in angelic streams. The bird had just jerked downward when the jar crashed against
SolomonTs forehead.
ke ek
The sand was worse than the blood. The blood had trickled down his cheek, but the sand was every-
where. It burned his eyes and tasted acrid. It had caked in the blood and in his hair. It covered his
hands and was deep in his nose and ears. Solomon picked himself up and started to brush off. Tears
started to trickle, more from the sand than the pain.
Solomon headed back tow
wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the sky was dimming.
age in the other, he worried about what to say. Explaining this
shoes in one hand and the c
would be difficult, especially since the
where it was. No telling.
He arrived at th
the curtains. The Good Reverend Doctor sittin
en and her kneelin
the door. ItTs wrong to interrupt a prayer,
Solomon turned the doorknob slowly, eased the door and
he could. He could hear the whispered n
steps were unhe
what he saw was wrong. The Good Rev
adjusting his pants. Shonda just turned her head.
Solomon hated that
Shonda wasn't cured and it w
came, planning how he'd kill it. Tired an
He bad drowned his last chicken.
ard the old house where he'd left The Good Reverend Doctor. He
Struggling back with his
chicken had escaped. That was the bad part. No telling
e old house and could see The Good Reverend Doctor and Shonda through
g in the wicker chair with his face toward heav-
but the need to get cleaned up pushed him in.
stepped into the hall as quiet as
ame of Jesus coming from the next room. His foot-
yer session. He knew
ard as he stepped around the corner to join in on the pra
erend Doctor scrambled up, turning his back and
chicken. For the first time, The Good Reverend Doctor had failed.
as all Solomon's fault. He searched the woods until morning
d beaten, Solomon settled at a tree near the riverbank.
TIS oo,
gin front of him. Solomon laid the cage down quietly and moved around to
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An old man sits inside a screened-in porch with his ten-year-old
grandson. ItTs late and both are waiting for the boyTs parents to
come and pick him up. The grandfather is in a thin, rickety chair
with a woven seat so tight it creaks like a fine leather saddle. The
boy, having been through a slow weekend in a house absent of TV
or Nintendo, sits close by in an oversized rocking chair, half dis-
tracted by moths on the screen trying to get closer to the light
that hangs over the middle of the porch. After a long silence the
grandfather begins speaking.
oIt was GenevieveTs sister...I think. It was her sister Elma, or
someone else in her family that believed it to be good luck on
these moonless, windy nights to hang out the bed sheets on the
For Brian OTDonnell (Gramps)
April 13, 1914"November 21, 1999
AITING
honorable mention, fiction
mmm (00 (000 ((
O 3O O'DONNELL, BRENDAN
line. Well anyway, me and your grandmother would do that. Of course the line was
down the hill then, between two trees. Those are stumps now. Do you remember
them beinT trees?
oWell anyway, I'd always be the one who went down the hill puttinT them on the
line. I didnTt mind. I'd go hang 'em up for an hour or so. We'd sit right on this
porch, turn off the radio...ITd have an extra beer and your grandmother would be
prayinT the rosary. We still have that rosary, in fact, itTs hanging on her picture by
the icebox.
oWe'd just sit, then I'd go down the hill again to get the sheets. Of course the sheets beinT
put out didnTt give us any good luck. Your grandmother wasn't superstitious. Oh) no, No talk of
superstition around her. Ha ha.
oIt was the grass and whatnot, the trees and the winds over the pond that could really put
a smell into those sheets. And that smell went with you into the dreams you had that night.
No... it wasnTt for goo
d luck. Your great aunt Elma was weird for saying so. We did it for that
smell, for that smell and that extra hour or so on the porch together.
The grandfather rolls his fingers on the arms of the chair and looks at the boy who gives a
distracted smile then gets up to flick the moths off the screen hearing, oYep, I'll probably wait
to give you her rosary when you get older.�
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ESSENCE
JASON BRYANT
D How have you been since our last meeting?
LD eed TT VI.
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How is your medication working for you?
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DIAGNOSTIC REQUEST ~ ROU
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CHUTE aR R Meds em EE FRR Ben oe ner OP DOT oS Bal ote
Billy Halleck, good husband and
loving father, is both beneficiary and
victim of the American good life: He
has an expensive home, a nice family
and a rewarding career...but he is also
fifty pounds overweight and edging
into heart attack country. Then, in an
instant of carelessness, Billy
sideswipes an old gypsy woman
crossing the street -- and her father
casts a terrible judgement on him
oThinner,� the ancient man whispers
gently brushing the side of Billy's
cheek. Just one word...but six weeks
later and ninety-three pounds lighter
Billy Halleck is terrified, and desperate
enough for one last gamble that will
lead him to a nightmarish showdown
with the forces of evil slowly melting
his flesh away
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You've expressed some concerns about the actor Rob Lowe.
Would you like to elaborate on those? You seemed worried
about his livelihood.
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BT. 22 A series of animals jumping over something, like
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R.T. 12 | Angels with wings and long robes. They
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1 PRODUCT
SETH HICKS
first place
2 68MILES TO SEDONA
COURTNEY DELLINGER
second place
3 UNTITLED
MIKEY JACOBSEN
third place
4 FOUR
RACHEL WILLOUGHBY
honorable mention
D Do you think that you have a problem?
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\ Feel Scabs = ldovt ike Bok GAVEt pnd qames
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ROUTINE
| ov5 4OSTIC REQUEST -
SCHEDULED FOR: 01/27/2000
ENTERED BY: AT 10:48AM
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THE PHYSICIAN'S GUILD
REBEKAH PHILLIPS
first place
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PRODUCTION NOTES
The text for the Rebe/ was set in Vendetta Medium. Headlines were
designed using the following typefaces: Grotesque, Matrix, and Zurich.
The Rebe/ was designed on a Macintosh platform with QuarkXPress 4.1
and was printed on Potlatch Mountie Matte 80 Ib. coated text. 3000 copies
were printed on Komori and Heidelberg presses at Theo-Davis Sons in
Zebulon, North Carolina.
Additional thanks to Laura Easley in the ECU Medical School Radiology
Film Library, John Wiley in the ECU Medical School Genetics Laboratory,
Eva Roberts, and Katy Meehan for her patience and painstaking scrawls.
1 The Brain Series: Madness. WNET New York. Produced by the Annenberg CPB Project.
Videocassette. 1984.
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Daa NO: .
MEDICATION:
PHYSICIAN WILL CALL BACK ;
RX NO: a
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THIS MAG CONTAINS
12 3 4__PRESCRIPTIONS
