22 West Magazine - April 2019

Issue 84.03 April 8, 2019 www.22WestMedia.com

THE ALIENATION ISSUE Student reveals all about strike

NOW HIRING Editor In Chief 22 West Magazine The Editor In Chief (EIC) is responsible for the weekly print publication and web production of 22 West Magazine and for the overall integrity of the magazine including editorial content, appearance, coverage, production, scheduling, staff/personnel issues and advertising. Current enrollment in a B.A. or M.A. program in Journalism, Communications, English, or a related discipline preferred. Must have one year of college newspaper or magazine experience or the equivalent; a minimum of one semester experience with 22 West Magazine is preferred. A complete list of requirements, other criteria, and job application is available at www.asicsulb.org/corporate/work

Chief Executive Producer 22 West Video

The Chief Executive Producer (CEP) is responsible for the distribution of 22 West Video's creative content (“shows, segments,etc.�). The CEP is responsible for the overall integrity of the video content produced by 22 West, including editorial content, appearance, coverage, production, scheduling, budget and staff/personnel issues. They are responsible for setting creative and editorial standards, for providing a vision for the station, and for ensuring its continued production. Current enrollment in a B.A. or M.A. program in Film & Electronic Arts, Journalism, Communications or a related discipline preferred. 6 or more units are required and must maintain a cumulative GPA of 2.0. Must have one year of media production experience or the equivalent; a minimum of one year experience with 22 West Video is preferred. A complete list of requirements, other criteria, and job application is available at www.asicsulb.org/corporate/work

General Manager 22 West Radio The General Manager is responsible for leading, planning, and managing the operations of 22 West Radio and coordinates the administrative activities of the station, manages it business functions, ensures fiscal accountability, and supervises student participation. The General Manager is responsible for the planning, development, and execution of operating policies and objectives in accordance with 22 West Media operating policies and procedures, ASI policy, University regulations, and Student Media Board directives. They are responsible for setting journalistic and editorial standards, for providing a vision for the radio station, and for ensuring its continued production. Completion of one year of college and a minimum of one year of related experience and/or training; or equivalent combination of education and experience required. Must be concurrently enrolled at CSULB in six or more undergraduate units (3 or more graduate units) with a cumulative GPA of 2.0 or higher.

Experience with on-air and station management responsibilities, including the establishment of a volunteer station support structure. A complete list of requirements, other criteria, and job application is available at www.asicsulb. org/corporate/work

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Issue 84.03 April 8, 2019

CONTENTS

www.22WestMedia.com

STAFF Jess Kung, Editor-in-Chief editorinchief@22westmedia.com Yessenia Sanchez, Managing Editor managingeditor@22westmedia.com Tara Thomas, Art Director artdirector@22westmedia.com Nathan Nguyen, Lead Copy Editor Isabelle Cruz, Editor Kirsten Hernandez, Editor Karla Lopez, Editor Jason Turk, Staff Writer Joel Vaughn, Staff Writer

CONTRIBUTORS Audrey Bui, Contributing Writer/Artist E.R. Conte, Contributing Artist Eddie Diaz, Contributing Writer Elaine Esparza, Contributing Artist Marissa Espiritu, Contributing Artist Erin Haworth, Contributing Writer J.L. Hurtado, Contributing Writer Asher Reeves, Distribution Manager Taylor Vracin-Harrell, Contributing Writer Sarrah Wolfe, Contributing Writer

COVER DESIGN Jess Kung, Editor-in-Chief

By Jess Kung Editor-In-Chief It’s incredibly nice to take a break. I went camping and fully shut my phone off for three days, and it actually felt great. Achingly temporary, but great. As soon as my phone had signal again it was like a little pipe burst, and suddenly I was back to work in the middle of Kern county with 19% battery.

But a break is a good time to reset a little, to look back at your actions and try new things. Maybe you’ll get that haircut, buy a bold new hat. In our case, we’re doing an all fiction issue.

I’m really excited for the work we’re featuring this month. We have comics, poetry, and short stories/flash fiction that almost all involve a vehicle for whatever reason. There’s lots of original art from talented contributors, and it’s just nice to see where people’s imaginations take them.

With so much work to do, I’ve found that a lot of people don’t feel like they have time to create. Our time and energy doesn’t belong to us, and once we have a moment to ourselves most of us just want to watch someone else’s work and go to sleep.

I hope this issue can be a bit of inspiration for someone out there. The stories in this issue certainly aren’t bad, but if you see them and think, “I could do better than that,” and you write something, I count that as a win for us. It’s a perfectly healthy form of motivation (probably)! Just don’t be mean about it!

Human imagination is a force that feeds us beyond food and money, but we cannot neglect to get that bread for the sake of fantasy. I don’t think there are any easy answers for this except capitalism is poison.

Take it easy, ‘yall.

5 COMICS A variety of student work

6 CLEAN GETAWAY Don’t forget to leave a tip

7 GHOSTS ON A TRAIN You can’t run from yourself

8 THE MAN ON THE MOON Alone, surrounded by sky and stars

10 THE HIGHWAY STYX The Devil’s designated driver

12 PRESIDENTIAL DIET The meals of Ronald Reagan

14 POETRY A variety of student work

CONTACT US Mail: 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 116 Long Beach, CA 90815 Phone: 562.985.4867 E-mail: editorinchief@22westmedia.com

16 GRUNION P.S. After reading the stories you might wonder why the scorpion on the cover is blue. The answer is, it looks cool like that.

An alternative home for alternative facts

Disclaimer and Publication Information: 22 West Magazine is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of their individual authors, not the magazine, ASI nor LBSU. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, LBSU students will have precedence. Please include name and major for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. 22 West Magazine will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials, and illustration, but must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. 22 West Magazine assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers.

Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.

THE FICTION ISSUE

EARLY BIRD

22 West Magazine

By Elaine Esparza Contributor

Story by Asher Reeves Distribution Manager Illustration by Tara Thomas Art Director

DESERT BOY I should probably shave today.

Or not.

Even if it gives me a babyface...

LEARNING TO COOK

LOVE MY CAT

By Marissa Espiritu Contributor

By Elaine Esparza Contributor

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THE FICTION ISSUE

CLEAN GETAWAY

Story by Jason Turk Staff Writer

Don’t forget to leave a tip.

“The backpack felt like a heavy coal on his lap, burning into him.”

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Graphic by Tara Thomas Art Director

Joey Brooks wasn’t a career criminal. In fact, he was only doing this job to impress his friends. This would top all of the liquor store robberies he’d heard them talking about.

This crime had to be big. It had to be one he could brag about. It had to have all the elements of a good story — high stakes and a happy ending.

He didn’t even have to bring a gun. The approach was straight out of Pulp Fiction: come in with a phone, say you have a hostage held at gunpoint and have them fill your bag. Easy. He adjusted his tie and hefted the backpack full of cash over his shoulder.

Now, he was at the final junction of his trip. The part that — when he tells his friends — they won’t believe. So, he needed a receipt. An Uber receipt.

He checked his phone. Your Driver, Marlon, will arrive in 2 Minutes. He grinned like the supervillain he thought he was.

The silence of the deserted downtown enveloped him, not a siren to be heard.

Marlon pulled up to the curb as smoothly as possible, his 2002 Honda Accord only jerking slightly upon shifting into park.

Joey knew that getting the Uber meant sacrificing style but didn’t expect this much of a disappointment. At least he didn’t have to drive, something he simply never thought to learn. Of course, that was one of the things he’d keep hidden from his friends, so as not to rupture his tough-guy persona.

Marlon tried smile at his passenger.

The bags under his eyes, paired with the wrinkles, made his smile as inviting as an animal pound. Joey looked away, figuring the less empathy he had, the better.

“Taco Bell off of 8th?” Marlon asked.

Joey nodded, antsily watching out the window, backpack in his lap, as the scene of the crime faded into the background.

“You know, I think there’s a closer Taco Bell.” Joey shook his head. Marlon persisted. “It could save you some money. Uber likes to upcharge a lot, I —” “8th is fine.” Joey spat, finality in his voice. Marlon shrugged and dropped it. It was never worth arguing with them.

“Have a date there?” Marlon’s second attempt at conversation fell predictably flat, returning nothing but a shake of Joey’s nervous head.

“I worked at a Taco Bell once. Before they even had a dollar menu.” Marlon checked to see if his passenger was at all

entertained.

Joey’s gut was clenching up. He gripped his backpack a little harder refusing to let his guard down.

“What’d you do before Uber?” Joey whimpered, after a long silence. The strain on his body overpowered his desire to sound interested.

Marlon didn’t mind. Any chance to talk was a chance to talk. “Was a waiter for a bit. Red Robin. Got too old for that.

Figured I’d save a little for a car.”

Joey nodded. His stomach felt like it was beating harder than his heart. “How long are you doing this for?”

Marlon shrugged. This wasn’t a question he exactly loved to answer.

“Until something better comes along.

Something with a degree.”

Joey’s gut didn’t love that answer. He only wanted to know when Marlon’s shift was over. It was too late. His pounding pancreas told him conversation had to continue. “Where are you going to school?”

Marlon grinned in the sad way that a dad would when trying to explain to his kid why the fish died. “I waited tables for four years, and this is the car I was able to afford. Where do you think I’m going to school?”

That sick feeling was gnawing at Joey in full force now. Maybe this Uber ride wasn’t going to be the cherry on top that he expected. The backpack felt like a heavy coal on his lap, burning into him.

He took a glance at Marlon. There wasn’t a hint of emotion behind his exhausted and aged face. Just a glance towards the Taco Bell parking lot they were turning into.

“Have a good whatever-you’redoing,” Marlon muttered, his composure still dignified despite the depressing prospects. Joey nodded, slung the backpack around his shoulders and slumped out of the car.

Here he was, at what was supposed to be his proudest moment. Miles from the crime scene, with thousands of dollars on his back and a story to tell. But those dollars were heavy. And the story wasn’t worth it.

Marlon began to pull away, but as he reached the parking lot’s edge, he saw Joey’s erratic hand waving him down. He stopped.

Marlon cranked down the window, confused by Joey’s harried state.

Speaking as if he just emerged from the deepest end of the pool, Joey blurted, “How much am I allowed to tip?”

THE FICTION ISSUE

22 West Magazine

GHOSTS IN NOWEHERE PLACES You can’t run from yourself.

Story by Erin Haworth Contributor Graphic by Tara Thomas Art Director

“Everyone has ghosts, and he’s no exception.”

She is present in every direction that I look, sitting in every empty seat and every aisle around me.

She never breaks her gaze. The only relief I find is in my own exhaustion, occasionally falling in and out of a dreamless daze. The small window on my right displays only the blurred images of nowhere places, moving too fast for a solid image of her to form. A neverending stream of strangers flow around me as I attempt to drown myself in ambiguity.

I have plenty of ghosts but I can’t stop seeing her. A passenger’s haircut, the way a cashier smiles, the nail polish on my own hands.

She had been my world and I thought I had been hers. It started with random disappearances, her controlling attitude and passive

aggressive comments, finally escalating to yelling matches and punched walls. It may finally be over, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t scars.

A garbled voice breaks through the fog as I’m forced back into reality. “Next stop, Burbank Airport” rang through the mess of cracks and fizzes, melding with the pulsating sound of wheels on tracks. The sound of shuffling reaches my ears as the people around me begin to gather their items, ignoring everyone and everything around them. An attendant makes his way down the barely occupied rows of the car, checking on passengers with a kind of enthusiasm I can’t imagine.

His calm, polite demeanor couldn’t fool me. Everyone has ghosts, and he’s no exception. His ghost might be a teacher who enjoyed punishing “lazy” students.

Or maybe a boss whose greed came before the well being of their employees.

But his ghosts are probably faint, fading into the background, while mine feel more real than I want to admit. No matter how far I go, she will always be there to torment me.

My skin starts to crawl, the metal walls collapsing around me. I call out desperately to the attendant as he passes by. “Excuse me, how long will it be to San

Clemente?”

His lips twist into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We will arrive at that stop in two hours and 35 minutes, as long as there are no unexpected delays.”

His tone is too smooth, too restrained. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss?”

“No, I’m good, thanks…” I mutter, looking everywhere but his dull eyes.

I reach into my backpack, fumbling to produce a crumpled and worn ticket.

The ticket reads “Sacramento to San Clemente.” There had been no time to think. I had jumped on the first train out of town, trying desperately to not look back. I lean back against my seat, trying to calm my racing heart, but I can feel her gaze growing stronger by the minute. My body feels too hot, air catches in my chest as the room begins to shrink.

Another announcement fizzles out of the speakers, “Now arriving at Burbank Airport.” Everything slows to a crawl as we approach the stop. The doors jerk open and the roar of a jet engine permeates the car. I bolt, overtaken by an indescribable impulse, pausing only long enough to grab my backpack. You can’t run from your ghosts, but that won’t stop me from trying.

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THE FICTION ISSUE

THE MAN ON THE MOON Alone, surrounded by sky and stars Story and Graphic by Audrey Bui Contributor There was once a man who was sulkily self indulgent. A man who was sadly preoccupied with his own self pity, that he had consumed everything around him until he was completely and desolately alone.

This man lived on the Moon. The sky was eternally a cobalt blue with silver streaks of mist, and stars would fly past him and his home planet. The man would think, “How beautiful stars are, but no matter how much I love them for their beauty, they always fly right by me. Maybe I am too ugly to be in the presence of stars. Yes. That must be right.” He spent most of his days like this, self deprecating and full of self doubt.

The man himself, was tall, lanky and lacked a substance, a core to him. He moved with the effect that he was being dragged, like a rag doll that came to life. His face was languid, his nose was long, his cheeks had a slight downwards droop and his lips were thin and lightly pressed together. He wore the same pair of faded, worn-in and slightly tattered brown corduroy pants and a sheep’s wool sweater every day. His moping moved him around the Moon, which he didn’t like to do much. He felt as though he didn’t deserve to like much.

Although on the Moon, the man wasn’t completely alone. He was accompanied by a ram named Mouton. Mouton was an underspoken ram who had the personality of a gruff yet kind-hearted old man who would rather be left alone than sourly be involved in the matter of others. He was short, stocky and had the horns that swirled inwards towards his strong body. He was

old, (and) perhaps as old as the Moon.

Nobody besides the Man understood the origins of Mouton and how long he had been around. Mouton lived in a small straw hut slightly off the path that led to the Man’s home; they were always close in proximity with the chance to interact, but ultimately they kept to themselves. The Man held back by his self deprecation and Mouton held back by his pride to reach out for a potential friendship. Mouton would come and go as he pleased, he did not stick close to the Man, for the Man would get into moods where he would cry out to be alone. And simply, Mouton did not feel the need to be hindered by the Man’s emotions and his overwhelming amount of dependance weighed down by a low self esteem.

The Man had an affinity for thinking out loud and pacing. Days on end, he paced the length of the Moon thinking to himself about the possible explanations of existence, time, sadness, happiness, love and loneliness.

On this fateful day while he was pacing, he realized he was further than his usual radius of the Moon allotted to his daily pacing. He then noticed a glint of red, something alluring and shiny.

He felt his heart swell because on the Moon, everything was grey and chalky.

Never anything with so much color. He walked towards the red glint, and as he approached the object closer, he began to realize it was not just an object … it was alive! It moved slowly and indifferent to the presence of the man.

He finally reached and realized it was a scorpion. A ruby-red scorpion glinting

“Maybe I am too ugly to be in the presence of stars.”

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in the sunlight. The scorpion was oddly alluring but had the aura that it should not be prompted.

The Man could not look away from the scorpion, it was the most beautiful thing he had seen in a lifetime. The way it reflected light and glimmered. He was enamoured. The Man was tempted by it, tantalized, he wanted to touch it, to pick it up, but he refrained — for a moment. He crouched down to take an even closer look. He examined with precocity, its tail and the stinger at the end of the tail were dangerously hypnotizing. His face lit by the red glint of the insect, mimicked the face of a small child in the presence of a hero with an armful of candy, toys and any amalgam of things that would bring awe to a small child’s face. Without thought, he reached towards the scorpion, and without hesitancy, the scorpion stung him.

The Man fell backwards and he cried out in pain, shock, hurt and in denial.

How could such a beautiful thing hurt him so? He crawled and backed away from the damned thing and sunk to his knees.

He sat in the crumbly, chalky rubble that the Moon had to offer. For some reason, there were tears streaming down the man’s face. An odd amount of tears that were definitely in excess for what actually happened contextually. He felt his face with his hands and looked down at the tears coating his fingers and asked to no one in particular, “Why?! Why are there tears falling from my eyes? Why did the scorpion sting me? Why must I be alone?” He sat and he waited. An

indeterminable amount of time had passed and the Moon was a bit darker and the man was still on his knees, dejectedly looking at the ground. His hand still slightly throbbing with the pain the scorpion inflicted upon him, that he very well deserved. His sobs had grown smaller but still there. There were light cries racking his thin frame. Then the Man felt a nudge against his back. He looked up and it was Mouton. The Man looked at the old ram and stood up and silently nodded. He lightly held Mouton’s horn, and together, they walked back to the Man’s house on the other side of the Moon. The Man walked quietly along Mouton, unaware of how Mouton had gotten to him and how he had known the Man was in need of assistance. It dawned on him walking the lengths of the Moon that, he was cared for, he wasn’t alone and perhaps he had a friend. Mouton never admitted out loud that he was concerned that the Man hadn’t been in his cottage for a while, and he most definitely would not admit that he had spent more than half the day looking for the Man. Nonetheless, Mouton, in fact, did care about the general well being of this human. And so the Man and Mouton walked side by side as the Sun rotated the opposite direction of the Moon as their shadows trailed behind them.

From this day on, it really just turned out that the Man was not alone, only negligent of the ones he already had in his presence, convoluted by his inability to see beyond himself.

“For some reason, there were tears streaming down the man’s face.”

THE FICTION ISSUE

22 West Magazine

So, a funny thing happened. I didn’t end up eating a Tide pod. That’s not the funny thing. I almost wish I did, because last week, my fucking flu came back.

Photo by Name, Name Contriubtor

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22 West Magazine

THE FICTION ISSUE

OSWALD AND LUCIUS ON HIGHWAY STYX The tale of the devil’s designated driver.

Chapter 1: Oswald takes Highway Styx Lucius stared through his Raybans into the empty shot glass. His vermilionbloodshot eyes were scanning the dregs of whiskey for conversation with his bartender and designated driver, Oswald.

“I need ta do somethin about ma Gahd dayum mug, man. Shave it, scrub it, moist-tur-ize it, just change up somethin ta get fhucked.” Lucius downed the last of his Coors Light with a gruff chortle at what he considered a sense of humor.

Lucius’s face was always bloated by the end of his shift. Oswald wasn’t sure if it was because the eightball Lucius skied through over the work day or the on-the-clock drinking privileges he earned through seniority. Regardless, Lucius always had this red-flush, scowling Porky Pig look about his face.

“Lucius, you know I think you’re immaculate.” Oswald shook loose

limes and cherries out from the kitchen mate behind the bar like the lie that just fumbled off his tongue.

“Your prisee-bitch-arse-lickin is too much fir me, Ozi.” Being a lapsed metal head, Lucius insisted on dropping allusions to the bands of his early adulthood whenever he could. Oswald the barback was Ozi, Alissa the server was Alice, Samantha the manager was Sammy and Zed the bartender was

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Zeppelin. “Well, a’ leas ma insides are boo-tiful.” Lucius snapped and pointed at his empty glasses for refills.

Oswald obliged Lucius’s Romanemperor-esque command out of fear that one word to Sammy would have Oswald’s fired head on a pike outside the patio gates of Meph’s Bar and Grill.

Lucius greeted his next round of Coors and Jack with a gladiatorial thumbs up as they were presented to him, and then an executioner’s thumbs down as he kicked the shot glass back.

“Ay-Ay Ozi, ya think ya can give may a ride home?” Lucius asked while draining

ignition as if he was under Lucius’s spell.

“Tha’s a good boy.” Lucius dipped his three-pronged house key into his bag of spell powder, sniffed the side prongs with each nostril and licked the center one with his serpentine tongue before offering the bag and key fork to Oswald. “A-A-Ay Ozi,” he snorted into his bowls, “t-t-tit’s good shite.”

“Ahh, nah,” Oswald said. “I don’t need to tweak the car into a freeway divider.” Lucius’s spell wasn’t that powerful.

“Goo’ on ya, don do da crime less

“Lucius stared through his Raybans into the empty shot glass. His vermilion-bloodshot eyes were scanning the dregs of whiskey for conversation with his bartender and designated driver, Oswald.” half his pint.

He and Oswald weren’t what you’d typically call friends, equals or even coworkers. Lucius had this power over everyone and anyone, as if his emperorship over Meph’s was bestowed by some Luciferian rite placing him at the top of the bar and grill’s divine chain of being, a chain of being that Oswald was fixed at the bottom of.

“You need me to stop at the Bibianamart for beer and ciggies?”

Oswald knew Lucius’s request wasn’t to be refused, his duty and part of his job description were to ferry Lucius over Highway Styx to his home.

“If ya bless-ad hart bee so kind.”

Oswald finished closing up Meph’s in silent piety as Lucius gazed on.

The neon, horned devil outside Meph’s cast a red light across all corners of the misty purgatory of the parking lot. From the front seats of the beaten down and scratched up Volvo 240 neither Oswald nor Lucius could see anything but the 2 a.m. fog baking in red light.

“Ayo boyo, let’s a-go … o.”

Oswald popped the keys into the

ya can affor’ not ta drive.” Lucius took another elaborate series of bumps in one fluid motion and started to gnash his teeth. “Whish I learn-t tat befir all ma Dee-OOO-eyys.”

“Yeah, wisdom of the young I spose.” Oswald guided the Volvo off the asphalt of the parking lot into the empty stream of road leading to the Highway Styx, the carpool entrance preceded the main on-ramp, and Lucius was eager to ferry the highway as quickly as possible.

“Don be a fat puss Ozi, jess take da exit fir tha car pools.” Lucius waved his finger like he was a conductor commanding a symphony of anxiety to well up in Oswald.

The fingers and palms of Oswald’s hand stretched and strained against the steering wheel as if they weren’t his hands at all, as if they were a body separate from his being stretched across a rack.

“Ah, fir fhuck sake.” Lucius grabbed the wheel and dragged the 240 into carpool on-ramp. No turning back now.

Chapter 2: Lucius takes the wheel The 240 raddled down Highway Styx like it was at the brink of death, Oswald wasn’t worried though, the Volvo had carried him to hell and back before, plus, Lucius’s hand was on the wheel.

“Jes who da hell are ya, Ozi?” Lucius asked from the passenger seat as he guided the 240 out of the carpool onto the main highway.

“Well, not to sound too pretentious, but I’ve always thought of myself as a storyteller firs —” “Nihil, Ozi, nihil.” Lucius interrupted as he kept one paw on the wheel and used the talons of his other to scrub through the radio dial. “I ass-tked who ya are, nah wah ya do.”

“I’m a person, I guess.”

“We’re all pee-plez Ozi, noten is lass special than being jess a mortal.” The lights over Highway Styx illuminated the darkness of his Raybans. “Ya may nah believe it, Ozi, bu I wis jess like ya once and all other creatures of dis green earth.”

“Isn’t that a little … fantisful, Lucious? I mean, we’re just two chumps working for tips and at the end of the —” “Don fhu-cking tast may pay-tience ya pleabean anthrapoid,” the light was sucked out of Lucius’s shades, “lest yir insolence should wit-stand my pugnacious wrath of untold searing infernos, n’ yir bones nah snap in the clutches of ma indignation!”

THE FICTION ISSUE

22 West Magazine

Story and Graphics by Joel Vaughn Staff Writer

Moments like eternities of silence passed as Lucius’s black gaze was trained on Oswald. But that too did pass.

“Hee hee, Ozi, st-oopid heel at ta great chain of being.” Lucius snorted to his bowels. “An-ay way, mah point is thar’s something in-a-side ya Ozi. In-a-side ya, in-a-side me, in-a-side all a’ us, like the syn. But unlike corruption, this thing I spek of transcends humanity, lyfe, dath, and ay-ven Gahd hersilf. Tits what orders us n’ binds us in relation ta each other.”

“Way to philosophize there Lucius.”

“Thas right Ozi, I do phil-os-aphize, wait tables, snirt powdar, pound shots, and reek a’ sulfur but I transcend all those t-ings to become Lucius.”

“Yeah, I get it, I’m Oswald, not just the things I —” “Neh ya don, Ozi! Yir an anxious bundal of red-haught nerves tumbling through dis earth hoping to one day madder. Storay tella, pish-Gahd-dayum-posh, so biz-ay tellen stor-ays ya can’t even tell who and where ya are.”

“What am I supposed to transcend then, Lucious? My nerves so that I can start terrorizing my coworkers?”

“Transcend da question itself and jest be, Ozi. No task, no aspiration, jess a solipsistic luv and accep-tense of whir ya are.” Lucius stretched out his other appendage to drag the Volvo down to the exit.

The sterile light inside Bibianamart cut through Lucius shades revealing the noir sheen of his eyes. These void orbs were couched in now sore-like pink skin that struggled to hold a presence beneath the

surface of Lucius. A 24 pack of Coors Light was wrapped in his appendages.

“Ayo boyo, da ninny behind ta counter says no liquor sales afer two pee-mmm.” Lucius sneered as his head swiveled round the convenience mart. “Ya’ll have ta get inventive n’ taken whit’s ours.”

Oswald sighed. “Lucius, can’t you just wait till tomorrow to get more beer and maybe not shoplift?”

At that, Lucious removed his Raybans revealing a fully formed but glassy set of eyes. “Why no, son, I’ve never stolen anything in ma gosh dern life.”

“Oh, just cut the innocence bullshit Lucious, just buy your cigs so we can go.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Lucius clicked. “We came here for beer, Oswald, n’ y’all Gahd dayum well take it … We came here for what’s ours, and after all, the Bibianamart does owe it to us.”

Oswald took the 24 pack.

“Alright son,” Lucius performed, “just put this back for me while I settled up with the cashier.”

Oswald sat in the driver’s seat sipping one of the lukewarm beers.

“Well sir, I’m very disappointed in you for not paying out my scratcher, but I bid you a good night.” Lucius finished his stroll out of the sliding Bibianamart doors and came into eye contact with Oswald. “Fhucken dumm prick.”

Oswald started the 240 again.

“At that, Lucious removed his Raybans revealing a fully formed but glassy set of eyes. ‘Why no, son, I’ve never stolen anything in ma gosh dern life.’ ”

Chapter 3: Oswald takes Lucius home Lucius’s decrepit McMansion wasn’t more than six blocks from the Bibianamart. Staring across the street out the driver side window, Oswald was at a loss as to how Lucius was able to afford this derelict, live-in monument to the not-so-petit bourgeoisie, but there wasn’t enough space left in the wee hours of the morning to explain it.

“Ya di good boyo,” Lucius said as he lit a cigarette. “Ha-nestly, I didn think ya had it n’ ya.”

“Didn’t have what in me, the capacity to be peer pressure?” Oswald asked as he finished the ill-begotten beer.

“Oswald was at a loss as to how Lucius was able to afford this derelict, live-in monument to the not-so-petit bourgeoisie, but there wasn’t enough space left in the wee hours of the morning to explain it. ” “Nihil Ozi, ya did much mo’ then let the devil whispa in ya ear. Ya took somethin fir me and then ya took somthin fir ya self.” He pointed at the empty beer can in Oswald’s hand.

“Get the fuck out of my car Lucius.”

“Tat’s da spirit boyo.” Lucius tossed another can of Coors into Oswald’s lap before ascending from the Volvo and beginning to cross the road. “For yir troubles.”

Oswald held the can in his hand waiting for some sort of resolution to happen to him, but that never came.

Then it was there in an instant: Lucius’s explosion of indignation, Lucius’s feigned innocence, his use of soft and hard power was all in an effort to exercise and manufacture his —”

“Lucius!” Oswald rose out of the 240 with the unopened can of beer in hand.

Lucius turned from his front door with the three-pronged key in hand, his eyes still the glassy imitation of the real.

“No gods, no masters, no emperor in hell.” Oswald threw the across the sea of asphalt landing a blow to Lucius’s head.

The devil just laid there with beer pooling and fizzing round his skull. But then he rose with the can impaled on one horn pouring beer into his once more noir eyes. Lucius snorted to his bowels. “Prepare yir head fir da pike.”

11

22 West Magazine

THE FICTION ISSUE

D.L.B.D. Share some meals with the 40th president

Chinese Chicken Salad The Country Club, 1981

Beef Bourguignon w/ Schnapps West Berlin, 1987 A swarm of 50,000 protesters were congregating throughout West Berlin.

This was Ron’s warm welcome. He hadn’t eaten on the flight from D.C. His stomach was divided between hunger and satiation. Ron was on neither side. He lacked an appetite, among other things.

The trip to from the airport to the Brandenburg Gate was met with rousing attention. Protestors surrounded his many vehicles, attempting to prevent them from arriving at their destination. Ron’s face remained stoic. They held signs that read “Reagan is a Murderer” and “USA, International Genocide Headquarters,” chanting aloud in unison. He was here to deliver yet another speech.

In the meantime, they took a detour

and sought refuge at a secret location.

Ron dropped onto the leather armchair and lit one of his cigars. Ron only ever smoked in the presence of world leaders, but he had had it. He needed to relax. To perform for no one for now.

Hair disheveled, tie undone, leather dress shoes kicked off. Kathleen, his assistant, asked if he wanted anything to eat. Ron inhaled the smoke and closed his eyes. On his left he rubbed his wedding ring with his thumb.

Nancy. What would she think of me of not eating. He rubbed his temple.

Kathleen, I’ll have beef bourguignon.

She nodded and proceeded to leave.

Kathleen, wait! She returned. I’ll have some schnapps, too. Peach.

Story by J.L. Hurtado Contributor 12

Something cast a shadow over Ron, obstructing his view of the menu. He looked up slowly, intrigued by the sudden change in brightness. He pushed his reading glasses to the edge of his nose as he tried to make out the figure before him.

It was a waiter. Though it wasn’t John, his usual. This waiter had shaggy brown hair and tan skin. His convex nose indicated he was not like the usual waiters at the Los Angeles Country Club.

Ron gave his order to the waiter suspiciously. It was unnatural for his order to be jotted down as John always knew exactly what Ron was craving. Ron almost believed John to be a mind reader. Ron himself didn’t know what he wanted sometimes. There came a time when he was tired of making decisions. He wanted to be told what it is he wanted.

Ron told the waiter to choose. The waiter quickly nodded, averted eye

Illustrations by Marissa Espiritu Contributor

contact and walked away. Ten minutes passed and a party of 13 settled near Ron. Twenty minutes passed and Ron’s attention was heavily invested in the newspaper. Natalie Wood had been found dead. He circled all of the times they mentioned her name.

There were 13 pencil marks. Thirty minutes passed and Ron’s left leg was bouncing uncontrollably, his fist curled.

His stomach was in knots.

A tray came into view followed by the waiter’s bulbous nose. An array of colors peeped out from atop the tray.

The waiter set it down before Ron. There was chopped lettuce and red cabbage, mandarin oranges, sliced almonds, green onions…

It’s a Chinese Chicken Salad. Ron shook his head. This is not what I wanted, he said. I wanted a Chicken Caesar Salad.

THE FICTION ISSUE

22 West Magazine

“There came a time when he was tired of making decisions. He wanted to be told what it is he wanted.”

Breakfast Buffet The Pacific Palisades, 1964 Nancy had prepared a breakfast buffet in the backyard. Well, the kitchen staff did, but Nancy did fix the table settings that the maids didn’t align to her liking. Behind the glass-paned sliding doors were the children, their faces squeezing against the glasses leaving behind traces of their cheeks. They stared wild-eyed at the array: croissants, biscuits, strawberries, melon, sausages, bacon, eggs, and more. In the kitchen, the chef was preparing a smoked salmon breakfast casserole cooked in the oven; Ron’s favorite.

Ron was in his study preparing a speech. He had been undisturbed for the past 3 days. There was the occasional break wherein Nancy would check in and give him his daily peck on the lips. It was her way of showing support without stifling him in any way. Nancy knew that Ron was overthinking. He thought he had to have a sense of intelligence about him at all times. Therefore, Nancy took it upon herself to prepare the breakfast buffet for

him.

Nancy knocked gently on the wooden door to his study before entering. The blinds were shut tight and only his desk light illuminated the calendar before him. Ron lay buried in his office chair, sleeping. Nancy hesitantly shook him awake. His face, deep set with wrinkles, reflected his concern and anxiety. The smell of the casserole wandered its way into the study, and then Ron truly awoke.

In his burgundy bathrobe, Ron quickstepped his way to his throne at the center of the backyard table.

Nancy cut up a slice of the casserole and gingerly placed it before Ron. He devoured the slice and took a second, then a third, until he ultimately ate the entire casserole.

He suffered food poisoning and would be on bedrest for weeks. The speech would be postponed until October of that year.

Wedding Cake Ronald and Nancy’s wedding, 1952 It was strangely hot and humid for March, thought Nancy. Panic arose early that morning regarding the wedding cake.

Surely, the tiers of white cake would all sink into the bottom layer. The man and woman atop the cake would topple over and find themselves broken and ruined.

It would collapse into itself. Nancy called her maid of honor, Brenda, to get the situation sorted out.

The Little Brown Church lacked a fridge, the Reverend’s secretary informed them.

Nancy went into a frenzy. She insisted that the ceremony could not go through unless the cake business be resolved. As Nancy nervously paced the room in her

pink, floor-length nightgown, her hair coiffed into tight buns, Brenda paced back and forth in her mind.

She promptly called her husband William for suggestions. Let’s just have the ceremony here at home, Brenda.

We can go to the church to officiate and then come here. Brenda nodded.

Nancy arrived at the Little Brown Church. She noticed that the cross atop the church was almost slanted to the right. It was biting down desperately on the rooftop tile, attached by only a single nail. As she stepped into the church, the cross plummeted into the green shrubbery below.

13

22 West Magazine

THE FICTION ISSUE

ODE TO A FRENCH FRY NUB Poem by Taylor Vracin-Harrell

Y D A R G ’ O OLIVER

Contributor

Photo by Jess Kung Editor-in-Chief O blackened spud in paper sleeve, you are alone.

Your brothers and sisters, comrades, compatriots, have left you.

Where they were: goldenfluffy, thick, and grease-soaked you are burned and dried and hard.

Even the granules of iodized salt were tastier than you, O cold leftover, for they were licked up by hungry, desperate fingers where you were purposefully ignored.

Nub, how long were you trapped in the deep-fry basket before you were scooped up and added to my order?

How many times did you nearly escape that oily metal cage, how many times did they torture you in two hundred degrees rumbling grease?

Now I see, O French fry nub, you’re not a loser, left alone, unappetizing, but a winner: fry-nub! victorious!

Endling, last of your kind.

So, looking as you do, that shoe-leather exterior was your defense.

You toughen up as life heats up and turn to burnt potato-flavored ash as you crunch like gravel in my molars.

14

Poem by Sarrah Wolfe Contributor Graphics by Tara Thomas Art Director

Oliver O’Grady, by most, Was a well-to-do man. The son Of a sea captain, Oliver spent His youth painting the days that His father missed at sea, And later his pension On canvas to cover the town But Oliver’s only folly Was having none. His paintings Too fine to feel any verve, He admired his work alone.

The nights he prayed For a miracle, prayed to wake To an absent father or A mangled limb, anything short Of death, so long as he could return, His work inspired.

Oliver O’Grady was granted One night his most miserable wish.

Upon waking, he found his eyes Clamped shut, his lips sewn seamlessly.

Left to sound and to touch, he found His hands benumbed to craft.

A rectifiable mishap, At the hands of the divine.

A hopeful Mr. O’Grady Summoned the local town doctor Who looked at once and right away Knew that Oliver O’Grady Would never paint so fine again, Would never paint at all actually.

O’Grady refused to accept This fate so foolish. A misfortune That the town doctor was of no Sound mind. O’Grady went about His day, feeling brush to canvas, Or to wall, it was hard to tell.

But he knew whatever it was He painted, that inane quack So obviously misjudged. One Only had to take a single glance At this masterpiece of his To know that he, O’Grady, Was a man of great talent.

O’Grady stood before his work And tried to admire what he’d done.

But his eyes still shut, lips still sealed, He took the exacting knife That lay next to his brush, To his eyes and to his mouth Until, through gushing slits, He glimpsed and gasped At his work, so unsightly That the blood running out Made for a finer painting Than his fingers ever had.

my tongue is a sin to my spirit. It tak THE FICTION ISSUE

the earth. It rumbles at my feet. To ho

BLOO

22 West Magazine

brain. Mankind have the power to sha

DLIN

E

the Speakers. Their voices echo in I hear their drums, projecting louder th

DEVIL

louder

drums, than

BLOODLINE

the Speakers. Their voices echo in my brain. Mankind have the power to shake the earth. It rumbles at my feet. To hold my tongue is a sin to my spirit. It takes

BLOODLINE more courage to weep than to hold it in.

more courage to weep than to hold it more in. courage to weep than to hold it in.

projecting

their

my tongue is a sin to my spirit. It takes my tongue is a sin to my spirit. It takes

hear

the earth. It rumbles at my feet. To hold the earth. It rumbles at my feet. To hold

BLOODLIN I

brain. Mankind have the power to shake brain. Mankind have the power to shake

Graphic by Tara Thomas Art Director

I found him at a fork road.

Softly, he said he’d been waiting for me.

Standing there with his inviting eyes.

He sang to me a symphony.

He was an angel by daylight.

There, I found a part of me.

I watched as our demons played, Strategic manipulation.

A complex collaboration.

A light show of hallucination.

He turned into the right of the path.

Singing, “Come with me for you see me for who I am.”

I had the instinct to follow.

the Speakers. Their voices echo in the my Speakers. Their voices echo in my

Poem by Eddie Diaz Contributor

I hear their drums, projecting louder than I hear their drums, projecting louder than

By Yessenia Sanchez Managing Editor

But instead, I made a left.

DOCUMENTS

By Yessenia Sanchez Managing Editor

“Social security card,” she said.

Card. Emphasizing the d.

The real card, she said.

I bit my tongue.

Was it something I said?

Was it the dark of my hair, Or the brown of my skin?

Maybe the sounds of the letters That form my name.

That told her I was not from here.

That told her I had no such document.

But I too have my dreams.

This won’t be the last or first time that I hear That emphasized d.

15 15

The Grunion is a work of satire. It in no way reflects the views of 22 West Magazine or Associated Students, Inc. (blah blah blah legal shit)

The Grunion An Alternative Home for Alternative Facts since 1978

Create your own generic and uninspiring speech from one of the candidates running in the democratic primary! (big number)

Hello and thank you all for coming out tonight. I’d like to thank the town of ______________ for being so warm and welcoming to my campaign. I’d especially (shitty city in Iowa)

like to thank __________________ for rallying up the support we need to really take the primary! It is an _________ honor to be with you all in this historic year. (overzealous campaign organizer)

(Adjective)

I just wanted to give a quick shout out to ___________________ and our _________ children. I miss them terribly, and being out here makes me miss them more (name of spouse they’re cheating on)

(Number)

than____________. I can only hope that they aren’t giving ______________________ too hard of a time!

(Plual noun)

(Name of spouse they’re cheating on)

I feel, though, that the work that I’m doing here is for them and for all of your children. You see, we live in ___________________ times where all the power is (Fear-mongering adjective)

in the_____________________. Our Earth is becoming uninhabitable because of their irresponsible choices that only benefit their pocketbook. The situation is (Social class where candidate sits)

getting worse and the temperature is rising to an alarming ___________ degrees. If we as a government do not act soon, the American people will soon have to (Number)

live in ___________ and eat _______ for every meal. Is that a future we want?

(Type of shelter)

(Food)

But of course, I am running because I want to represent all of you, especially those in the swing states. Have I mentioned that Iowans are the most __________ (Adjective)

people I’ve ever seen? This place is so full of culture, and it really represents the heartland of our country. I tried ____________ for the first time and man, it (Stupid local food)

was great!

We have problems other than climate change to worry about, though. The healthcare industry is beginning to tear this country to ___________. Do you think it’s (Small objects)

fair for the average American to have to pay _________dollars for _______________? If ______________ can manage to take care of their citizens, why can’t we?

(Number)

(Medical procedure)

(Scandinavian country)

Another big issue we have on our hands is immigration. Right now, we have an _______________ president in the White House who thinks that immigrants are (Offensive adjective)

simply _________ on the street! We need to let the world know that the United States is a safe place for victims of _______to start a new life. This my friends, is (Noun)

(Crime)

the American dream and we cannot let the ___________ Republicans change it to benefit the ________ percent.

(Adjective)

(Number)

But, ladies and gentleman, I have faith that America will pull through, because America is the _______________ country on earth! _______ bless you, and (Adjective ending in -est)

_______ bless the United States of America! Goodnight!

(Diety)

(Deity)