Curbside Splendor e-‐zine | July 2014
Curbside Splendor
July 2014
Curbside Splendor Publishing Curbside e-‐zine July 2014 ISSN 2159-‐9475 Poetry: Where I’m From by Jessi Lee Narducci Four Poems by Michael Salcman Casual Walk by Michelle Chen Fiction: No Hard Feelings by Heather Sager A Beautiful Candy Shell by Dawn Wilson Cover and photography by Ashley Leann Ojeda Editors – Joey Pizzolato & KC Kirkley
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Jessi Lee Narducci
writes the blog OnChicagoAvenue.com. Her work has appeared in Thought Catalog, Nailed Magazine, Pool Poetry, Another Chicago Magazine, Knee-Jerk, and other publications. Her chapbook Sharked will soon be published at Dancing Girl Press.
Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
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Where I’m From by Jessi Lee Narducci
I am from the torn up road from childhood and other nightmares. I am from watching the Godfather alone on Christmas. I am from the fish that died because I held onto it too tight. I am from failure and artful departure. I am from a drunk father singing Amazing Grace and I am from a mother's fist. I am from blank pages and black eyes and crooked teeth. I am from the beloved dead and a lineage of fuck ups. I am from dark stars and doomed from the start. From wise cracks and the spines of used books. I am from the time my father drove the wrong way down a one-‐way street. From the time my mother caught a rattlesnake with a stick. I am from France and Chicago Avenue from poetry and beatings. I am from survival and plane crash. I am from David and Goliath from angels carved out of guts and poverty. And I am from laughter so large it keeps me alive.
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Heather Sager Born and raised in Minnesota, Heather currently resides in the Chicago North suburbs area. “No Hard Feelings” is her first published story.
Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
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No Hard Feelings by Heather Sager A man, a woman, and a four-‐year-‐old meet in a shopping mall parking lot. Westfield, out in the empty, where no one else parks. It’s a bright afternoon. Plain. In this way, it happens: two trucks park side by side. A dirty black Trailblazer and a white pickup. The man and child get out of the pickup and the woman comes out of the Trailblazer. They meet. The Trailblazer trunk opens. They have a reunion of sorts. In front of the Trailblazer trunk which has mall shopping bags in it they talk, rub hair, each adult putting their hand on the head of the small boy, who is bright as day and has a gray shirt and blond hair. The man gives the woman a letter, an envelope. She has long hair, red, held back in a ponytail, and wears a T-‐shirt, sleeveless, black. She is attractive. He is not bad looking, and wears an orange and blue shirt that is plastic and bright, like a child’s shirt. She looks at the envelope, perhaps a stack of bills or old mail, and shakes it, but does not open it. She puts it in a bag, a plastic one she is carrying, the kind that comes from a grocery store. She puts it in the trunk. The trunk door closes, opens, and closes again. They raise their fingers to the back window and make shapes in its dirt. The woman does so first, and then the man, and then the woman again, as if to say, Hey, I really need to clean this dirt. They exchange glances as if they will pick up the child and let him do it too, but they remain standing there. The child hugs the woman, then the man, then the woman again, who opens the Trailblazer driver’s side door. Then the man hugs the child, and the woman opens the door for the child. The man waves frantically. The child gets in. The woman closes the door behind him without
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taking any other steps. The door closes fast. The woman gets in and closes her door too. The man stands on the other side now. He waves and waves with both hands held up, flopping them in a vertical motion, looking like a duck. He keeps doing that. Then he gets in the white truck and drives out of the nearest exit of the parking lot. The Trailblazer drives off too, cutting straight through the mostly empty part of the lot to where it’s not so empty anymore, and as they vanish the boy is riding the truck like a chariot, head out the window and then back in, and then out again, standing behind the headrest of his mother, whose window is open also. They speed past the busy mall customers who are out walking and they round the corner, out of view. - -
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8 Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
Curbside Splendor
July 2014
Michael Salcman
is a physician and teacher of art history. He served as chairman of neurosurgery at the University of Maryland and president of the Contemporary Museum in Baltimore. Recent poems appear or will appear in Alaska Quarterly Review, Hopkins Review, The Hudson Review, New Letters, Ontario Review, and New York Quarterly. He is the author of two collections: The Clock Made of Confetti (Orchises), nominated for The Poet’s Prize, and The Enemy of Good Is Better (Orchises, 2011). His anthology of classic and contemporary poems on doctors and diseases is forthcoming (Persea Books, 2014).
Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
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Four Poems
by Michael Salcman
The Cherry Laurel In early Spring, when songs had words and jazz remained the realm of true feeling, I saw two sparrows having sex on the new wall of Maryland stone, saw how the male fluttered above his mate and she, accepting his invisible prong, strutted above the shadow a cherry laurel made against the wall— a clutch of green and pink peonies at its base, witnesses to an incarnation. In your memory’s honor I smoked a cigar on a day as cold and raw as a heart divorced from blood, deprivation being, as Larkin said of Wordsworth, a daffodil’s worth of inspiration. Lighting the flame I left off my glove and almost froze; so nearer the chill, let go of love.
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Radiant Brow or Murder in Wisconsin Not since 1914 has Wisconsin seen so many people killed by gun or ax. Terry Ratzmann shot seven members of the Living Church of God in Brookfield, including a pastor who prophesied the end of the world two weeks before his own life ended during a service in a Sheraton. An avid gardener, Ratzmann often brought his neighbors acid-‐free tomatoes and zucchini before he served them death. The congregation, self-‐described as true descendants of Israel’s ten lost tribes, were meant to live apart from all the rest of the earth—no public service of any kind— and no salvation offered if you weren’t Anglo-‐Saxon. In preparation for the end of time, they hoarded their savings and paid off all their credit card debt, as if sound financial planning might avert an early apocalyptic sign: collapse of the U.S. Treasury. We won’t ever know why he did it—psychotherapists say anger turned in can lead to suicide but sometimes not before it escapes as murder. Terry Michael Ratzmann shot himself in the head on March 12th, 2005, with the same nine-‐millimeter pistol he used on his victims.
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Back in 1914, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Barbadian chef also killed seven, making them sort of even I guess, though I suspect working for Wright had to be much harder than obeying God. The fire Julian Carlton set began in the dining room where Wright’s mistress Mamah sat eating her supper; two of her children also died and some guests Carlton had struck with an ax while attempting escape. He was called a Negro “fiend” by The Weekly Home News of 1914 and died in the Dodgeville jail two months after he swallowed some acid. Wright was safely away in Chicago when the estate burned that first time and later rebuilt Taliesin in Spring Green, a shrine to himself and the women who served him as acolytes. The name means Radiant Brow in Welsh, a trope I guess for his own forehead shining with self-‐belief. After it was struck by fire or lightning a third time he erected a tombstone in Art Deco style not far from the tree where Mamah Borthwick lies buried alone. His third wife defeated him, took his ashes west and mixed them with her own. The Book of Taliesin, the first collection of poems in Welsh, is described as wanting a beginning, a middle and an end. Since then, not much has changed; we mourn the dead and are too often fed by imperious hunger.
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History of the World This is how I learned about the world and in this order— first, dinosaurs: biggest, smallest, fastest, slowest sharpest claws, flying, swimming, meat-‐eating, upright vegetarian. Next—stars and galaxies: planets, earth, moon, sun distances between, relative brightness, perihelion, apogee speed of light, coming of darkness. Then came books and temple: True Detective, Hitler, genocide, bad dreams, Sherlock Holmes, Poe and poetry also laughing gas and masturbation, Christmas trees and resignation, polio. Then came history and history of: art, music, philosophy; the past its presence everywhere, left it in Brooklyn, went to Boston, became a man, donned the green hood of medicine. Then came love, a filigree, like a clan’s code or coda adding to the past while working the future, always postponing desire. Then came work in the academic factory: committees, conspiracies, ambition children, revenge, research and surgery; the brain as an object, fatigue. Then came you unnerving me, cracking the world wide open again; watch it! they’re coming out of their shells—biggest, smallest, fastest.
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Wild Bill At the gym you gladly didn’t know what most anyone did but you knew what they loved. Take Tyl— who couldn’t write well or do sums, and wouldn’t read a book unless it was about baseball. He claimed to be dyslexic, got some letters twisted around but knew how he felt—how people held up the important things all backwards. You’d run into him on the train to Cooperstown, or a few rows down at the shiny new park if not at the gym where he broke down and cried the day after the greatest of fans, Wild Bill Hagy had died. A groundskeeper at a local college, Tyl otherwise lived in Section 34, his mind turning over the summer of ‘79 when the O’s almost won the whole thing. Hours and hours were spent watching Wild Bill lead them in that famous cheer, his thick body enunciating each letter, giving the “S” at the end an extra flourish, his log-‐like arm extended in the air as his body bent forward, his leg stretched back as if he were falling out of a rocking chair. O-‐R-‐I-‐O-‐L-‐E-‐S. And When I get to heaven, Tyl told me, I expect to find an old staircase from Memorial Stadium held up by ungodly noise and air and a wild bearded man at the top, a can of beer in each hand and the great happiness of youth “misspent.”
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Dawn Wilson
A graduate of Bath Spa University in England, Dawn Wilson has had the pleasure to dabble in kitsch, surrealism, and espièglerie. Her work can be found in Rabbit Catastrophe Review, Gone Lawn, Paper Darts Magazine, Metazen, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Drunk Monkeys, and Punchnel’s, among others, while the author herself can be found dismantling the kitchen for wearable items, or at nightdawn.wordpress.com. She is at work on a madcap novel.
Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
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A Beautiful Candy Shell by: Dawn Wilson
“No need to schmooze me, Mr. Cramp, I think I’m ready to make a deal.” “Delightful!” “Isn’t it? I don’t throw my business at just any hoodlum with wicker lawn furniture.” “Allow me to dig up a nice shiny pen.” “That’s a lot of bling for my poor old signature.” “On that paper, Mr. Rutherford, your poor old signature is priceless.” Torrence pulled out a silver pen, twisted it, and held it up to catch the light just so. “You know what sold me on you, Cramp?” “No, sir.” “But you want to know?” “Like an elephant wants a glass of water.” “Your wife. The way you two have settled in here, that’s what sold me. A good woman, right behind her man, where she should be. You took her yoke and broke her in, and that is the kind of man I trust.” The swinging door from the kitchen opened.
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Torrence Cramp watched proudly as his wife made her debut into his sitting room carrying a pitcher of iced tea and a stack of glasses on a tray. The help had prepared the tea but it was up to Corinne to make the presentation— refreshments and self—which was most important. Impeccable, that’s what she was. Her hair was perfect but fake, a wig, the only concession he had made. Her hair always had been perfect, but natural grown hair had a tendency to matt to the scalp, to grow soiled, oily, dull. His darling, his buttercup, could never be seen as dullish or substandard. Her steps brought her nearer with such grace he was pleased he had brought in the Japanese tutor to teach her the kata of steps. A true art form. Corinne could not think about her form, it had to be drilled into her, a first nature, to present the self with no misstep. Her smile must never be brittle, must always remain sunny, perky, a lovely refreshment of its own, and so Torrence was again glad of the extra time and expense they had taken on her smile as well, to have it stapled into place by the best cosmetician. Torrence feared the effects of gravity on his otherwise unchangeable wife. She set the drinks, as she had been trained, on the end table. They’d had to remove the lamp after several mishaps led him to see that setting drinks would never be an exact science. Although this version of Corinne was perfect for everything he needed, she was a little clumsy at finer actions. Walking, curtsying, smiling, being beautiful—those were her strengths. Playing hostess was beyond her abilities, but since Torrence rarely planned to entertain, he only needed her presence peripheral of his business meetings, which occasionally had to be attended in the comfort of one’s home. That was simply the way of the business world. To share the outward appearance of home as if generosity ran
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through the veins instead of ten parts blood one part calculation and a dash of whisky to warm one’s sodden spirit, overtaken as it was by the demands of the Public Life. “Congratulations, Corinne,” said Rutherford, “on your marriage.” Trained to respond to her name, Corinne’s head turned toward Rutherford and she tipped her head in acknowledgment. Her perpetual smile stayed perfectly. Glue never would have held it so well. “Are you so pleased with your wife, Mr. Cramp?” “Indubitably,” said Torrence. He had little ability to tell the difference between large words and embarrassing words, but Rutherford didn’t let on which this was. “I feared, after your wedding, when you weren’t sleeping. First of all that I would need to take my business elsewhere.” Rutherford laughed. “And second of all because one’s honeymoon should be sweet, never sour. It’s good to see you worked through it.” “Isn’t it, Corinne?” Torrence turned to include her blank eyes. Again, she responded with a tip of her head that set off the gingersnap smile. Torrence smiled back. “We’re dashedly happy, aren’t we, Corinne?” She smiled and nodded that single graceful bob of a well-‐trained genteel wife.
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“Certainly I think Corinne couldn’t live without me.” Corinne nodded again and Rutherford laughed, as if there were a joke and it wasn’t on any of them. Talk turned to business and Corinne sat still and placid as trained and never once grew antsy, never offered an opinion. Torrence was again smitten with the girl he’d decided to call his own. It had been a long battle, once the ring had been placed on her finger before God. Torrence had never realized that she was smart, uppity, given to fits and expressions, unable to cook or stay out of a conversation. He’d threatened to send her to finishing school; she had threatened to divorce him. Imagine! A woman threatening a man. Not in those circles. They weren’t some common trash. Once a union had been made, it was permanent, irrevocable, and there were few things to be done except to hide one’s bride away at a spa and have bits of her brain removed every morning after breakfast until she was pliable, silent, willing, and utterly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “I’ve been considering marrying again,” Rutherford said, turning back to Corinne after papers had been signed. “Not that I think there’s another girl out there quite like her.” Rutherford was getting on in age and had buried three wives already, each younger than he, but no one could necessarily say he’d buried them under suspicious conditions. You just didn’t dare think such things about men like Rutherford—and Torrence aimed to be just like him some day. “I’ve been feeling the need for an heir. There’s
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something to be said for nepotism, even if it’s gone the way of the boll weevil. With Lucille gone, I’ve considered pushing Agatha down onto the kitchen counter and getting her disgraced. But she’s my cook. She’s my maid. I need her. So I’ve been repressing this urge, mind you.” His eyes flickered over Corinne, who hadn’t flinched, no matter how rough his talk. “Women nowadays just don’t understand business. A man’s needs. Running a household. Holding her tongue.” Torrence thought Corinne’s eyebrow flicked. He’d once threatened to cut out her tongue—until he discovered that, not done right, it would kill her swiftly. Good thing he’d done his research or he’d have missed out on this stage of marital bliss. You just couldn’t go around lopping tongues in this age. “I got me a line on a nice cache of Philippine girls. Those girls have nothing and all they’ve ever been taught is how to serve their families. It would be like heaven for them, to bring them over, let them wash my feet.” “I couldn’t agree more. A properly civilized woman.” “What do you think, Corinne?” She nodded sweetly. “Yessir, that’s what I like. But how’d you ever draw it out of her? How’d you manage to keep a good domestic girl like Corinne from being corrupted by the television and the liberation laws and the thoughts in someone else’s head that she starts to think are her own?” “Lucky,” Torrence muttered. “Very, very lucky.”
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“I was at your wedding, Cramp. Now, that girl could speak up a storm. However did you break her?” “Bit by bit…” “You didn’t cut out her tongue?” “Open your mouth, Corinne.” Corinne’s mouth could open just far enough for an electric toothbrush, because of the insertion of her smile, but it was enough to convince Rutherford. “Hmm. And you didn’t just brain her with a blunt object?” “You may feel her skull for fractures.” Rutherford looked like he’d take Torrence up on that offer, but then he slapped his knee and chuckled. “A lucky cuss, that’s what you are.” He stood up. “Corinne, let’s see Mr. Rutherford to the door.” Corinne sat there with her mouth half open. It seemed that she’d forgotten how to stand up. They would have to work on that. “She gets tired,” Torrence explained and walked his client to the door. “Don’t I know it. Hell if I haven’t worn out six or seven women in a decade.”
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“Try a nice Philippine woman,” Torrence suggested. “You just can’t beat gratitude and a woman who knows her way around household duties.” “Will do, will do. I got the paperwork all drawn up and a thousand photos to choose from. Not exactly my species, but a woman’s a woman, and a woman should be soft. I’ll see if I can send for a couple sisters. I’ll keep one at my country house. We can both use the extra girl, how’s that?” Torrence blanched. “I think I’ve got my work cut out for me here. All the woman I can handle.” He glanced back to see Corinne had risen from the easy chair and gone to the window. She raised the sash, then the screen. Torrence shook Rutherford’s hand and dispensed with the rest of the civilities. All the woman he could handle, all right. Even unconsciously, Corrine knew how to make a man mad. So damn strong. Feisty and brainless…but not quite untrainable. Torrence tore her away from the window and slammed the sash. “No.” He slapped the back of her hand. “No.” He led her into the master bath where he stood her next to the toilet and plugged her in. One tube in, one tube out, keep her healthy, almost like a robot, but still far too human for his liking. “Kiss,” he ordered. She didn’t move. She rarely did when she was all plugged in.
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“Kiss, Corinne.” He reached for her head and pulled her into position. “Kiss.” She finally puckered and leaned the last few inches to brush her lips across his cheek, looking for all the world like she enjoyed it. He smiled at her. “That’s better.” She smiled back. He left her standing there and turned off the light. It was best to wait an hour until she was done, then he could clean her up and take her to bed. A boy child, that was something to aim for, but a girl child might be even better. Girl children learned by example. He’d get quite a dowry for a perfectly healthy domestically grown daughter who learned never speak always smile curtsy twice and always always give in.
-‐ -‐
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Michelle Chen
is a writer and historian in New York City. She is a contributor to The Nation, a contributing editor at In These Times, associate editor at Culture Strike, and a producer of the radio program Asia Pacific Forum.
Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.
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Casual Walk
by: Michelle Chen When you walk before us without a sideways glance and display the extra hole in your face with a grace of unbecoming beauty, we turn and blush, and blush for blushing all the blood that pools in the bubes of ego balanced precariously on our brittle necks. Your spine straightens us and the blood we horde in our heads sublimes from that orifice you've opened on your cheek. The cavity into which the war has disappeared, out of which the peace drains, in the soft tongues of a nursing wound. The silent grace of your stride plaques the escape tunnels we've bore within us, calcified visions of forgotten doves, gulls picking at mass graves. The patter of calloused feet running ahead of youth, or just young enough, to retrace those steps where you remind us, not to blink.
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About the Artist Ashley Leann Ojeda
There are a lot of things I love and hearing that shutter close on my camera is one of them. I have been intrigued with capturing moments since I was six years old. My first photo was of my dad after he allowed me to do a makeover on him, curlers and all. That was a good day, a great memory, and a photo that would have you rolling. To this day I still don’t take my camera or ability to use my camera for granted. My style is simple, diverse, and still growing. Which of my photographs is my favorite? Easy, the next one. –Ashley Leann Ojeda
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www.curbsidesplendor.com
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