Crack the Spine Literary magazine
Issue 133
Issue 133 November 12, 2014 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2014 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art: “Blue Eye� by Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier is a photographer, writer and poet who loves finding the odd within the beautiful, the spark within the mundane and capturing the nightmare as well as the dream. Published internationally, regionally, as well as in heritage and military museums, she's been featured in Zen Dixie Magazine, Artemis Journal, Cactus Heart Press, Dactyl, Fine Flu Literary Journal, The Scarborough Big Art Book, Sand Canyon Review, The Notebook, Shadows and Light Anthology and Vagabonds Anthology to name a few of the creative places she dwells. Follow Karen @KBG_Tweets
CONTENTS
James Seals Many Times Before
Karen Hildebrand At Farley’s s
Julie Wittes Schlack Just You Wait
Ani Tuzman The Moon Called Last Night
Samuel Vargo Gone Fishing
Tennae Maki Concerning the Sound of Whispering Things
Mitch Kellaway Imagine Me
James Seals Many Times Before
JD’s Casino and Lounge teemed with swinging dicks. Roustabouts, roughnecks and other oil-rig help – fashioned in Carhartt gear and unkempt beards – crowded near the ratty bar. Rock music murmured from an old boom box. The room smelled of stale sweat and smoke, piss-water beer, and just-extracted Bakken black gold. “Another round,” Pete shouted to Butter, then he slapped a forty dollars onto bar. Butter nodded, seesawed her hips to the beer taps. She was one of four girls in JD’s. She worked the bar. The other gals worked the room: serving drinks, taking food orders, rubbing their tits against the men in hopes of receiving bigger tips. No one knew Butter’s real name. Guys simply called her Butter because everything about her looked perfect but her face.
Ray talked to the newbie as Pete order the overpriced beer. Pete winked at his best friend when the drinks were placed in front of him. Ray smiled at Pete as Pete palmed a roofie into a newbie’s drink, a hazing ritual Forget-me Pete used as a “welcome to the crew.” A prank Ray himself once played: permanentmarking a Joker’s smile on his victim’s face while Pete was on a rare vacation. Ray slammed the last of his beer before Pete returned with the next round. He recalled his first night in North Dakota: the blistering cold air, the testosterone-filled worksite, the gruff voices and distance stares. Pete had “welcomed” Ray aboard. Then he took Ray into his tutelage, a mentor of sorts. He showed Ray the ropes. Even allowed Ray to stay a couple of months in his trailer until the new
workforce houses were ready for habitation. Ray liked being one of the boys. Pete made his way to the table. Ray thought Pete looked oddly graceful as Pete’s stocky build and full hands eased through the crush of men. Ray considered Pete – one of the oil-rig’s old heads – a big brother or a father figure, the person who assuaged Ray’s growing feeling of aloneness after he left Colorado two years before. Ray never considered working an oil field, but college debt frightened him so he decided a few years of backbreaking work and a hundred grand banked would allow him to do or see whatever he wanted to do or see next. “Drink up, boys,” Pete said. He set the beers on the table. He handed Lonnie – the newbie – the roofied beer. Lonnie thanked Pete. Ray spied a line of fast-moving bubbles floating to the top of Lonnie’s beer as the last of the drug dissolved. He slapped Lonnie’s back, distracting
Lonnie from the glass. “Glad to have another hand,” Ray said. “You’ll soon learn how I like my laundry folded.” Lonnie laughed. “Like hell, bro,” he replied. He maintained eye contact with Ray like he was trying to figure out if Ray was for real or not. Ray smiled then raised his drink. He toasted Lonnie then Pete and the few other roughnecks standing around the table. Ray and Pete peered over their glasses at the newbie, watching as he chugged his beer. Lonnie slammed his glass on the table. “I got the next round,” he said. “Kissing ass already,” Pete replied. “I think I love this guy.” Everyone laughed then everyone ushered the newbie to the bar. After their seventh round of beers and near closing time, Ray staggered to the bathroom. He announced to Pete and Lonnie he’d be right back. Told them to wait for him. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. Ray stumbled into
a couple guys who stood in his path to the bathroom and who were amongst the six or seven die-hards pushing the limits of “last call.” Ray felt like it took forever for him to find the bathroom, but he did find it. He leaned his forehead against the urinal wall. He closed his eyes as he pissed. He heard the door squeak open then crack shut. Someone mumbled something. Ray awakened from his stupor. He haphazardly replaced his dick into his pants then left the bathroom without washing his hands. “Time to git, darlin’,” Butter shouted from across the room. “Where Pete?” Ray asked. “I said be back.” Butter said nothing. She continued wiping the bar. One of the other gals grabbed hold of Ray’s arm, handed him his oil-stained hoodie. She guided him out the door, into the cold October night. Ray struggled to light a cigarette.
His body shuddered in the night freeze. He seemed determined – striking, striking, again striking his lighter – to ignite the tip of his American Spirit. Ray followed the familiar path to Pete’s trailer, glancing at the starry sky then back at the snow-covered ground. Ray zigged through the maze of offwhite, eight-by-ten-foot trailers. There were thousands of them. Newcomers often found themselves lost, knocking on doors for directions to the worksite or to someone’s quarters. Ray though easily found Pete’s place in the dark even in his drunken state. Ray walked around to Pete’s bedroom window as he had done many times before: Pete was a heavy sleeper, and Ray knew he had to pound a window to rouse his best friend. A dim light filtered through the fogged glass. Ray perked up, optimistic that the night’s partying hadn’t yet come to an end. He wiped
the moisture from the window. “What the fuck,” Ray said. He focused his eyes on Pete, who looked in the act of sex. Ray smiled, turned to walk away, proud to witness his buddy’s success. He took a step then stopped. He wondered who Pete could have convinced to come back to his trailer, which one of the few girls would agree to sex his best friend. Ray again wiped the moisture from the window. He leaned closer to the glass. Ray stared at Pete’s naked ass and shiny, white thighs. He watched as a thrusting Pete held someone’s unmoving hips. Ray held his breath to prevent the window from clouding over. He stared at the thin, lifeless body: The person turned his head. “What the fuck,” Ray again said. “What the fuck.” He stood frozen, confused. He didn’t know whether or not his eyes were deceiving him. He searched Lonnie’s face for some sign of joy or consent, something resembling pleasure. Ray
had no idea what to do or think. “Pete’s gay?” Ray mumbled. Then he remembered the roofie. Ray wanted Pete to dismount the newbie, to dismount Lonnie. He wanted to pound the window. Ray looked around for someone, for someone’s help. He saw no one. He then thought about hurrying away, pretending like he went straight home for JD’s. Ray again thought about pounding the window, but he believed he couldn’t pound the window because Pete would know it was him outside. He felt afraid of what might happen next, how Pete would react. “Get off him,” Ray whispered. Tremors seized his body. “What the fuck,” Ray shouted as he watched Pete collapse onto Lonnie’s back. Ray hurried to Pete’s front door. Tears of anger and sadness flooded his eyes. He banged his fist against the screen. He banged it a second then a third time, then he ran as fast as his
steel-toe boots allowed him to flee into the wintry shadows.
Ray started when his front door slammed. His socked feet dangled over the side of his queen-sized bed. He lay half naked and half buzzed from the night before atop his sheets. He grabbed hold of his head. “Son of a . . . ,” Ray said. He heard someone plodding around in his kitchen or living room. “Get up, Sleeping Beauty,” Pete said. Ray rolled over. Hurried to his feet. He took a moment to balance himself, to stop his world from spinning. Pete leaned into the bedroom’s doorframe, crossed his arms. He watched Ray flounder about. Pete smiled at his friend. “What are you doing here?” Ray asked. He picked up a T-shirt from the floor. He rushed to put it on. “You missed work,” Pete said. “Where’s Lonnie?” Ray asked.
“How should I know? Where were you?” “I just –” Ray staggered past Pete. He sped about the trailer, taking inventory of the dirty clothes strewn about the floor, the food-encrusted dishes in the kitchen sink, a coat draped on his green loveseat. “What’s the matter with you?” Pete asked. He followed Ray into the living area. “What’s the matter with you,” Ray replied. Ray again shoved by Pete. Pete raised his arm like he intended to throw an elbow in return. But he didn’t. Ray went into the bathroom. Closed the door. Latched the lock. He pissed then washed his face in the sink. He looked at himself in the vanity mirror: bloodshot eyes, hair standing on end, blotchy skin. He again grabbed hold of his head. “Where’s Lonnie?” Ray shouted. “I’m not his fucking keeper,” Pete
shouted back. “Where were you, man? I covered for you.” Ray unlocked the bathroom door. Opened it. “Where did you go?” Ray asked. “What are you talking about?” “Where did you and Lonnie go last night? I went to take a leak then you two were gone.” “I don’t know,” Pete said. “I looked for you.” “I walked the newbie home. Welcomed him aboard.” “What do you mean, ‘Welcomed him’?” “You know what it fucking means.” Ray walked to where Pete stood. He squared to Pete. “I shaved his head. Drew pictures on him,” Pete said. “Same as always.” “Same as always,” Ray mumbled. “Shit man. I came to see why you missed work. Why’re you–” “Don’t worry about me,” Ray shouted. Pete went quiet. His stocky body
stiffened. Pete stared at his friend. Ray maintained eye contact with Pete for a few seconds then he let his gaze fall to the floor. Pete retrieved his coat from the couch, moseyed to the front door. Pete gripped the door knob, stopped, turned to face Ray. “Don’t ever yell at me again,” Pete said, then he departed the trailer, leaving the door wide open. That night Ray spent the evening mopping his laminate floors, wiping his Formica counter tops, vacuuming his stained carpets. His trailer hadn’t been cleaned since when he’d first moved in. He ignored his ringing phone. Instead he watched a little reality TV. Drank a few beers. Ate peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Went to sleep early. The next morning and all that week Ray performed his duties – operating tongs, connecting pipes, assisting the Derrickman with the drilling mud – before heading straight home. Ray said little to anyone. At work he
anticipated rigging moves. He was in the right place at the right time. And he worked safely: the oil company’s number one rule. Ray smiled each time crewmembers called him “Worm,” though other Floorhands hated the term and complained to Lucky, the driller, about the nickname. “Lucky,” Ray said at Friday’s quitting time. “You worked good this week, Worm,” Lucky replied. “You seen Lonnie?” “Who?” “The new guy. He hasn’t been here all week.” “Man, there’re so many new guys.” Ray glanced at Lucky. He looked down at Lucky’s soiled boots. Ray removed his muddy gloves from his hands, slapped the gloves against his thigh. “How is it you don’t know your own crew?” Ray asked. “Do you know everyone out here?” Lucky replied.
“But you’re the boss.” “I don’t even know your name, Worm,” Lucky replied. “You temps come and go.” They both stared at each other. “What’s my real name?” Lucky asked. He looked at the evening crew striding toward the worksite. When Ray remained silent, Lucky said, “Exactly.” Ray that evening asked around JD’s for Lonnie. JD’s bristled with chauvinism and potation and sludgeplastered gear. No one knew Lonnie or anything regarding a missing newbie. No one appeared to give a damn either. Butter promised Ray she’d ask around. “Don’t expect much though,” she said. “I’m in North Dakota,” Ray replied. “I don’t expect nothin’.” Butter smiled. Ray toasted her then sipped his beer. “I’m just worried,” he said to no one.
Butter hesitated, touched Ray’s forearm, before she returned to the beckons for booze. Ray stared at her perfect ass as she swayed away. The sound of Pete’s familiar laugh caught Ray’s attention. Pete stood across the room, seemingly teasing others and slapping backs. Emptyand half-full-beer glasses littered Pete’s table. Ray ducked behind a nearby group. He pulled his ball cap tighter onto his head. He spied Pete and those who lingered around his table. Ray started when Butter set a fresh beer in front of him. “I didn’t order that,” he said. “Your boyfriend sent it to you.” Butter pointed at Pete. “I don’t have no boyfriend,” Ray said, raising his voice. “A fucking joke,” Butter replied. Ray squinted at Butter. He thought, You really are ugly. “Sorry,” Ray said to Butter. Then he scanned the beer. He noticed no fast-moving bubbles or
any other indication of Rohypnol. “Did Pete welcome me aboard?” Ray asked, still staring at the goldencolored pint. He flinched when Butter replied, “Forget-me Pete welcomes everyone.” Ray stared into Butter’s brown eyes. “What do you know about Pete?” he asked but Butter had left before Ray finished the question. “You avoiding me?” Pete asked his friend. Pete stood right behind Ray. Ray could feel Pete’s balmy breath against his skin. He crooked his body. Pete grinned. “Didn’t see you,” Ray said. “Really,” Pete replied. “Well, you can join us now.” “I’m about to leave.” Pete said nothing. He hovered over his buddy. Ray stood. “Fine,” he said. Ray started to follow Pete to the table. But Pete stopped, reached
around Ray, clutched Ray’s beer. Then Pete handed the glass to Ray. “I want to introduce you to a newbie,” Pete said. He winked at Ray then he snaked his way through JD’s. They arrived at the table. Introductions were made. Ray shook the newbie’s hand. “Have you seen Lonnie?” he asked Pete. “Heard he couldn’t take it,” Pete said. “Someone mentioned he left, went home with his tail between his legs.” Ray set his full beer on the table. He glared at Pete. Pete laughed at what he had said. “How did you ‘welcome’ me here, Pete?” Ray asked. The newbie watched Ray and Pete. Pete said nothing. He gestured like he wanted Ray to hush, to not ruin the moment, his current opportunity. “I saw you with Lonnie,” Ray said. “What the fuck’s the matter with you, man?” Pete replied. “If you are
going to kill my buzz, just leave.” “You need to watch out for this guy,” Ray said to the newbie. He smiled at the kid. “Go home,” Pete said to Ray. Ray noticed the newbie about to drink a beer. He slapped the beer from the newbie’s hand. The glass shattered when it hit the floor. Heads turned in every direction. “Stay away from this guy,” Ray said. “He’s bad news.” Pete smiled at Ray. The new guy looked from Ray to Pete. Butter had stopped serving to observe the ruckus. Pete leaned into his friend. He then whispered, “You whimpered like a puppy. You asked for more.” Ray shook his head. Then he swung at Pete, hitting his ear. Ray lost his balance, fell into Pete. The two men grappled for a second or two before strange, strong hands separated them. Ray struggled against the men who piloted him toward the front door.
“He’s a rapist,” Ray shouted. No one seemed to hear or care about Ray’s complaints: laughter and jeers continued to sound throughout the bar. Finally the men hoisted Ray out the door, into the snow. He scurried to his feet, slid his way to JD’s window. He noticed Pete standing side by side with the newbie: Pete speaking, his expression intense. Ray felt helpless as he watched both men sipping from their fresh schooners of beer.
Ray found himself standing outside Pete’s trailer. He shivered in the icy midnight hour. He smoked and stared at Pete’s front door. “Fucking rapist,” Ray said. He looked around. The air smelled of oil and dirty slush. He wondered why no one in JD’s had listened to or believed his claims. His body began to tremble. JD’s closes in two hours, Ray thought.
Ray kicked the trailer’s front door. The sound echoed in the darkness. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette away. He again kicked and kicked, until he caved in Pete’s door. Lights from surrounding trailers had turned on. “Fucking rapist,” he yelled at the silhouettes looking out their windows. Ray held his arms wide like an invitation to fight. He directed his attention to Pete’s trailer when no one responded to his offer. He charged inside. Headed into the kitchen. He pulled dishes and glasses from cabinets, exploding everything he could throw. He booted Pete’s flatscreen television, Pete’s stereo and speakers, the video-game consoles. Ray ran into Pete’s bedroom. He jerked clothes from the closet, ripped shirts in two, hurled boots against the far wall. He stomped on Pete’s alarm clock. He tore the sheets from the bed, flipped the mattress. “You sick son of a bitch,” Ray
shouted. He began to cry. Ray opened Pete’s dresser drawers. He searched inside, discarding underwear and T-shirts, pictures and cash. “Where are they,” he said. He stepped over the bedroom’s wreckage. Rifled through Pete’s nightstands, finding nothing more than hunting- and skinmagazines. Ray made his way into the bathroom. He searched the cabinet, but he didn’t find Pete’s stash of daterape drugs. Ray exited Pete’s place. A small crowd had gathered outside a nearby trailer. He started to hurry away, but he stopped, looked at the swarm of oilers. Someone said, “Dude had a blowout.” “You fucking idiots,” Ray said. “Go home, man, sleep it off,” a different person replied. Ray balled some snow. He threw the snowball at the collected men. Someone started to make his way to
Ray but another person stopped that man. “He ain’t worth it,” someone said. Ray turned from the crowd. He tramped back to Pete’s trailer. He began striking the windows with gloved hands. The men watched in silence. “He’s a fucking rapist,” Ray shouted to the men after he had destroyed Pete’s windows. At midmorning Ray heard a knock on his trailer’s door. He knew it wasn’t Pete, the knock too gentle. He remained lying face down on his cold kitchen floor, out of sight of anyone who may choose to peer inside. “Worm, open up,” Lucky shouted, again knocking on the door. Ray said nothing. He breathed swallow breathes, remained still. “I know you’re in there. Me and you need to talk,” Lucky said. After a few minutes Ray heard the sound of crunching snow. He saw a shadow pass by his kitchen window.
Everything went quiet. He stayed put. He was afraid to move. He fell asleep. A few hours later Ray woke. He rolled to his side. He stood when he was certain he heard no unfamiliar sounds. Ray looked out his kitchenthen living-room- then bedroomwindow, nothing. Saturday appeared normal. Ray brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, before making his way to the front door. He noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor: someone must have had slid it through one of the many gaps around the door’s frame. You’re dead, the note said. There was no signature, no indication of authorship. Ray chuckled. He folded the paper, placed it in his back pocket, headed to JD’s. “Lucky’s looking for you,” Butter said to Ray. She placed a beer in front of him. “I know,” he replied. The few men in JD’s gawked at Ray. Ray kept his concentration on the
country music twanging from the radio. He tried to avoid taking in the smell of peanuts and pretzels and days-old sweat, which made his stomach twist. He allowed his eyes to follow Butter, watching her every movement: to the taps, to the liquor display, washing glasses, restocking bottles. “You’re creeping me out,” Butter said. “Stop staring at me.” “Sorry. I wasn’t really . . . I had a –” “Everyone’s heard,” Butter said. “Everyone knows Lucky’s looking to fire you.” Ray regarded his full beer. He ran his finger around the glass’s rim. JD’s front door opened, slammed shut. He looked to Butter. Butter shook her head, letting him know it wasn’t Lucky. “Pete’s raping the newbies,” Ray said to the room. “Or should I use an oil term so you bastards can understand what I am talking about. He’s raping the ginzels, the new boys,
whatever you want to call them.” Everyone’s attention affixed on him. Butter leaned her hip against the ice box. She set down a bottle opener. “He’s raping everyone,” Ray said. He stood. He walked toward the center of JD’s. “Pete’s butt fucked you and you and you,” Ray said, pointing at different guys. Ray started to chuckle. Another guy entered the bar. Ray turned to see who it was. He didn’t recognize the newcomer. “Forget-me Pete,” Ray said to the room, then he broke into hysterical laughter. “Let’s go,” Butter said. She had grabbed hold of his arm. Ray started to walk toward the front door, but Butter pulled him in the direction of the bar. He liked Butter touching him, not Butter specifically but a female’s touch. He felt lonely and afraid and discounted. Butter led Ray to the backdoor. He
stopped before exiting. “I can’t stay in my trailer,” he said. He pulled the note from his back pocket. He handed it to Butter. Butter read the note, scrunched her face then turned around, rushed away. Ray watched her leave then return. “Go to my place,” Butter said, handing him her keys and cell phone and a scrap of paper with her address on it. “Seriously?” Ray asked. “Pete’s an asshole,” Butter said. “I’ll call you later, make sure you’re okay.” Ray wanted to kiss Butter but he didn’t. He smiled at her. He thanked her. He wondered what he was going to do, where he was going to go. Back to Colorado, he guessed. Ray looked at Butter’s ugly face then he hugged her. Again thanked her. He waited a moment before exiting into the bitter, sundrenched day.
Ray hustled to his trailer. He kept his head down, trying to avoid recognition. He squinted at the snowy glare as he weaved through the mass of trailers. He no longer felt cold or alone. He no longer missed his best friend – the guy who had seemed like family. Shouts of “Lucky’s looking for you” sounded from different directions. But Ray replied to no one. Faggot and Go Home Homo were graffitied in red across his trailer. Ray didn’t know what to think. His windows were busted. A note was taped to his front door. The door seemed intact. Ray snatched the paper. He balled the eviction notice then tossed it aside. “Son of a . . . ,” Ray said. He hurried into his trailer, afraid Pete lay outside in wait. He removed a duffle bag from his closet, stuffed it with clothes and toiletries. He grabbed his stash of cash from its hiding place, made his way to the front door.
“You can run,” Lucky said. He was sitting on a stool near the kitchen. Ray started. He replied, “I wasn’t running.” “It don’t matter. You’re fired, you know that right?” “I figured.” “You fucked up, Worm. Why –” “Pete’s raping people and no one cares,” Ray said. Lucky remained quiet. He removed a cigarette from its pack, lit it. Lucky took a deep breath, sighed as he exhaled the smoke. “Worm, you need to leave the worksite,” Lucky said. He stood. “What the fuck’s the matter with you guys?” “Pete’s telling everyone you’re the rapist.” Ray dropped his duffle bag. “What?” he asked. “Pete says he has pictures of you doing nasty shit. I don’t even want to think about it.” “That’s a damn lie.”
“I don’t care what you two –” “I haven’t done nothin’,” Ray shouted. “Shut your stupid mouth.” Lucky aligned himself face to face with Ray. He pointed his cigarette at Ray’s chest. “I’m giving you a chance to clear out peacefully.” “But I didn’t –” “I don’t care. You’re fired. Get the hell out of here before there’s more trouble.” Ray picked up his bag, shouldered it. He reached out his hand, said nothing. Lucky reluctantly shook the extended hand then Ray exited the trailer. He marched through the worksite housing, hands in pockets, shame and anger smeared across his face. He felt like everyone was staring at and talking about him. “I didn’t do nothin’,” Ray said to himself. He walked toward JD’s, found a cab at the bus stop. He told the driver Butter’s address, then he sat silent in the backseat.
Ray had been snacking on American cheese and Ritz crackers when Butter called. He turned down the television. He sat forward on her dark-leather couch. He sipped water to clear his throat then he set the glass on one of her coasters. Ray thanked Butter for allowing him to hide at her place. He mentioned that he liked the newer appliances and he wished his trailer had nice stuff like her place had nice things. Ray then told her that he had been evicted – so none of that mattered anymore – and that Pete was telling lies about him. “Pete’s been here,” Butter said. “He asked about you.” “What’d you tell him?” “That I hadn’t seen you, but he knew I was lying. He said some guy had seen me and you talking.” “I’m leaving in the morning,” Ray said. “I bought a bus ticket. Don’t worry about nothin’.” “Pete welcomed me here too,” Butter whispered.
Ray remained quiet. He listened to Butter breathing. He wasn’t sure what he had heard. He believed he could hear her crying. “Are you there, Ray?” “I am Butter.” “Rachael. My name’s Rachael.” Ray said nothing. “Pete roofied me too.” Rachael sniffed. “I don’t know for sure what he did or how many others did things to me but Pete welcomed me here too.” Ray removed the phone from his ear. He pounded it against his forehead then he hollered into the dark room. He hung up the phone. Ray found whiskey on top of Rachael’s fridge. He began sipping the liquor from a tumbler. He paced the house. He stalked from the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen. The sun set. Ray continued drinking Rachael’s whiskey. The sound of the cell phone ringing woke Ray. He had lain down on Rachael’s bed to rest his eyes. He
scrambled to the phone. “Pete’s here again with that newbie,” Rachael said. “The one from last night.” “What? Who this?” Ray replied. “Pete’s here. He’s with that guy.” “He rape you.” “Are you drunk?” Ray listened to the muffled sounds of music and drunken shouts and clinking glasses coming through the phone. He stood then walked into the living area. Merriment continued to flow through the other end of the line. “I switched Pete’s drink,” Rachael said. “You what?” “I watched Pete drop the roofie into the newbie’s drink. He turned to talk to someone. I swapped Pete’s drinks for the newbie’s drink.” “What –” Ray stopped talking when the other end of the line went quiet. He jerked on his boots. He layered his clothes. Pulled a knit cap over his
ears. Ray took Rachael’s whiskey with him as he departed her house. He begged the taxi driver to hurry to JD’s. The cabbie told him to stop drinking and to shut-the-hell-up or he’d kick him out. “Don’t make me pull over,” Ray said, giggling. But he quit drinking after he realized the cabbie didn’t care that he had been fired or that Ray’s former best friend was raping everybody. “Where are you?” Rachael asked when she again called him. It was around one in the morning. “Pete really raped you,” Ray replied. “You said it yourself,” Butter paused for a minute. “Pete rapes everyone.” “This is unreal,” Ray said. After another pause, Rachael asked, “Where are you?” “Outside. Watching.” “What’re you going to do?” she asked. “An eye for an –” Ray hung up the phone. He watched Pete and the newbie exit JD’s.
“You need help getting somewhere?” the newbie asked Pete. Pete stumbled about. “I got it,” Ray said. He tried to hide his face the best he could. “I’ll take him home.” Pete glanced – glassy-eyed – at Ray. Pete tried to say something but was unable to formulate a coherent sentence. Ray laughed, slapped Pete’s back. “Man, Pete, you’re messed up,” Ray said. “You sure you got this?” the newbie asked. “Yeah man. Pete’s saved me many times before. I owe him.” Ray wrapped his arms around Pete. He told the newbie goodnight and he promised to take good care of Pete. “Welcome aboard,” Ray said to the newbie. Then he guided Pete back to Pete’s trailer.
Karen Hildebrand At Farley’s s
William was the first to arrive. He rinsed his thermos in the sink behind the counter. When Jon wanted to impress a woman, his conversation turned to the Golden Mean. He threw back his head to laugh and you could see the way coffee coated his tongue. Ralph said he could talk to a banana peel but he preferred women. William took a sip from the espresso-sized thermos lid he held between his thumb and middle finger. Nick grew a beard only on the right side of his face. His straw fedora drooped after a late night at the Boom Boom Room. He played blues piano but aspired to jazz. “It’s the way the Egyptians built the pyramids,” Jon said. “The ratio of the longer side to the shorter side.” It was all very silly Karen believed, to think there could be romance at her age. But she could hope. She mentioned that Mary Ruefle wrote poetry by hand, didn’t know how to type. Had a callus from gripping her pen.
The meter maid came round every Tuesday and Friday, ahead of the street sweeper, handing out parking tickets. The barista shouted a warning when she could. Jon yelled, “Fuck,” mid-sentence, grabbed his keys off the table, and ran out the door. Tom pulled out a Sharpie and drew a coffee cup on a page of the Bay Guardian and signed it so it would be worth a fortune after he died. Curtis drew detailed plans for waste water systems in one of the journals kept on a shelf and instructions for making a paper butcher’s hat. There was a spot in the floor that squished underfoot from dry rot. We had an unquenchable thirst. We were in love with the Ducatis lined up outside at the curb. Someone complained when Annie the dog grabbed a scone off a plate and someone complained when the Health Department issued a fine. Mostly we laughed. We thought we had time. When Jon returned, he picked up where he’d left off: “Of course, DaVinci was the master.” No way he’d trust any gallery to represent him. That asshole Berggruen wouldn’t even pop for decent wine at his opening in ’93. William screwed the lid on his thermos, folded the auto parts classifieds under his arm, and headed out in the 1965 white Volvo he called Pearl.
Julie Wittes Schlack Just You Wait
Some people swore that the owners. the house was haunted. It stood alone on the other side of the lake, camouflaged by cedars and pines, behind a large rock that sloped down to the shore. Something about that rock – its broad, bumpy surface, so pallid against the green of the trees -- reminded Lucy of a fat man’s belly, like the Texaco guy on the Autoroute, holding the gas nozzle, staring into the back seat. The house didn’t have a name like “Northern Lights” or “Summer Breeze.” People just called it “the Franklins’.” But nobody had ever met
You could see its boarded windows from the dock of Lucy’s house, though the dock wouldn’t be there much longer. Tomorrow they’d be pulling it out of the water – an end-ofsummer ritual that left Lucy feeling hollow in her stomach -- and she, her brother, their three cousins, and the four parents would decamp from their gabled house, close the shutters, and nail them shut until next year. A week earlier, Lucy had begun announcing all of the milestones. “This is our last walk
to the post office,” she’d intone as the five kids trudged the half-mile down the dirt road to pick up the mail and buy penny candy. “That’s the last time you’ll get to read the dirty parts,” she’d remind her brother and her cousin Clifford, as they pulled The Tropic of Cancer off the top shelf. On this dreary day she began her silent litany of farewells. Goodbye, terrible thrill of checking the mousetraps each morning. Goodbye, bunk beds, tree house, black clawfoot tub that, until this year, the three girls had bathed in together
without embarrassment. Normally the last-night campfire, featuring burnt, oozing marshmallows and sternly rehearsed skits, would have made the departure more bearable. But this year the steady drizzle would not let up, the older boys were fighting constantly about records and girls, and even Elizabeth, who was practically her sister, seemed too distracted by the prospect of seeing her city friends to care that the campfire was cancelled. Still, before leaving there was one thing that the cousins all agreed they had to do for the first time. Late in the day
they piled into the boat. As Clifford rowed towards the house across the lake, the girls sang. Just you wait, ‘Enry ‘Iggins, Just you wait, You’ll be sorry but your tears’ll be too late – shouting out the “sorry,” investing it with as much Cockney malice as their skinny throats could summon. But their song faded as the boat neared shore. They scrambled up the barren rock, climbed soggy, leaf-covered steps, and pushed open the unlocked door to the Franklin’s house. Splinters of fading afternoon light slanting through gaps in the walls illuminated a couch with a broken leg, spewing
out mildewed stuffing. A brown, straight-backed chair had fallen on its side. An empty, greasy, blackened pan sat atop a cold wood stove. Next to it, the delicate carcass of a mouse was still clamped in its trap. Walking cautiously through the dank room, Lucy kicked something and looked down. A soggy game board lay littered with animal droppings, and strewn about the floor, in garish oranges and blues and greens, were the shriveled remains of popped balloons and faded Monopoly money. Children had lived here. Silently, the cousins left. You’ll be broke and
I’ll have money, the girls sang on the boat ride back. Will I help you? Don’t be funny. Their song sounded like a whimper.
Ani Tuzman The Moon Called Last Night
The moon called last night, three fifty-one a.m. Full to the brim—she had to tell someone. When I answered, she was speechless, perhaps as much in awe of me as I of her. Maybe she called not so much to say anything as to exceed her boundaries, have me exceed mine.
Samuel Vargo Gone Fishing
The Lincoln Continental driver’s last thought was one of abject horror. “Game over” flashed in 100-yard-high, neon-black letters in front of an obscenely large, hot-red backdrop. The Ford pickup came flying over the median strip of Highway 45 like a comet from the Kuiper Beit heading straight for the sun - a vehicular bullet with Owen Thoroughgood’s name on it, picked at random, in the latest lottery of the Angel of Death. The pickup flew up, flipped over a few times in the air, and like the 3,200pound projectile it had become, crashed with its wheels on top of Thoroughgood’s Continental. The pickup’s driver was going 85 miles an hour when he passed out, swerved to the left and onto the median, then thumped the crest, and became airborne. The median strip had an abrupt
crown towards its middle, but was tapered with dips at both sides where the landscaped earth met the asphalt. Only fifteen feet of grassy median separated both sides of the four lane highway, with two lanes approaching from the west and two from the east. In the springtime and into the beginning of summer, early blooming flowers spruced up the median area, creating a bucolic refreshing scene; but now, late summer’s harsh sun and awful drought made for a withering mess that was scorched, parched, and an ugly brown. Owen Thoroughgood was a grandfather of twelve and a greatgrandfather of three, with another in the hopper. Two days before, he’d had a grand old time drinking a few beers and enjoying being the family patriarch at a grandson’s “going away” picnic. Joey was leaving their
small town for the big state university where he was going to study engineering. But today, Owen was driving to Lake Evans to do some bass fishing. Of course, a few catfish would be welcome and a few walleyes would be fantastic for his stringer, too. He just bought a new Rapala tail dancer lure at Wal*Mart that he wanted to give a try. Although it was a large lake - over 20 acres of water, well-stocked and teeming with fish swimming everywhere underneath - Owen knew all the best angling inlets and he never came home without a full stringer. It was one of those days that retirees from the auto plant, like Owen, lived for – a fishing day in Mother Nature’s spacious and gracious living room. It was a perfect late-summer late-morning, in the low 80s, and the dew point was also low, with little water in the air. Before his crash, Owen Thoroughgood relished the cool air blowing in through the
driver’s and passenger’s side windows. He had trimmed his beard that morning and glanced into the rearview mirror and winked at himself a few minutes before the wreck. He had wavy, long, gray hair that made him look like an elderly hippie, with a short neat beard to match. His wife liked the way he looked and oftentimes told her gin rummy, church lady, and book club friends, “I married such a handsome guy!” Doris Thoroughgood was a plump little mother duck sort of lady, but the two had been happily married going on 45 years now. Owen rose at the crack of dawn, got his tackle ready after he trimmed his beard, and had a breakfast of yogurt and a banana. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and grits were off the menu now. Oh, how he’d loved those hearty breakfasts as a kid! His mother was a great cook and fried up a storm every Sunday after church. And his wife Doris continued this tradition
throughout most of their marriage. Every Sunday, the entire family would enjoy a hearty breakfast following church services. But now Owen watched cholesterol, fat, and calorie intake. His six-foot-two frame carried a weight of 215, not a bad poundage for a guy his age. He’d maxed out at a hefty and rotund 280 before he said “enough’s enough,” and went on his diet on New Year’s Day, two years ago. When the paramedics arrived, Owen’s corpse was such a mess that about all they could do was pick up the pieces of the 68-year-old’s mutilated body, throw them on a cart like some kind of biological jigsaw puzzle, then drive the mess of body parts and bones to the city morgue. The impact of the heavy truck on the Lincoln’s thin top created a mishmash of crushing, sharp, and jagged steel shanks; and the tires’ rotation after the impact created a slicing effect on poor Owen’s body. In sum, it was like being put through a meat slicer.
“Poor old geezer. Jeez. He was smashed like a bug with a flyswatter,” one of the medics said, with a crackling emotional timbre, as he sifted through the wreckage and carnage of the Lincoln’s interior. As the two cruisers from the sheriff’s department pulled up, drivers on the eastward side of Route 45’s median strip slowed down and gawked, trying to see some kind of horrific slice of life on the other side of the highway. A few witnessed five paramedics carrying pieces of Owen’s body – an arm, a piece of his leg, and even his right foot - around at the accident scene. It would make for a dreadful trip down memory lane for these on-looking snoops. It’s unusual and even extraordinary to witness such highway butchery. And its sway has the effect of watching 100 horror show movies back-to-back. Real life in real time trumps anything Hollywood produces, no matter how nightmarish or egregious Tinsel Town makes the
make believe appear. “The guy’s name was Owen Thoroughgood,” said a deputy who had taken the driver’s license from the wallet in Owen’s blood-soaked Dickies trousers. “He must’ve been a fisherman. There’s all sorts of fishing tackle in his car. And he was a war hero, too. Vietnam. They don’t give Purple Heart license plates away to little old ladies who play bingo.” “How’s about the guy in the pickup truck?” the other deputy, old enough to be the younger’s father, asked. “He’s fine. Not a scratch. Drunker than the breathalyzer will probably register, though.” “Lucky fuck. Crashing his stupid pickup on the Continental was like falling onto a pillow. Too bad it wasn’t the other way around. It would’ve been nice if the old guy could’ve gone fishing today.” “Poor cuss. Was probably on his way to the people’s pay lake a couple miles up the road and got hit by this
drunken asshole. What a crying shame,” the younger patrolman said with a strained voice. Plastic and metal pieces of both pulverized vehicles littered the highway. It was such a bad wreck that the cluttered and scattered debris on the asphalt made it seem like a small plane had crashed. Being the first police officer to arrive on the scene, Buzz Smith had seen Owen Thoroughgood’s dissected cadaver placed on the ambulance gurney and winced at the sight. The wheeled bed looked like a butcher’s block, with all the pieces of meat racked up on top of each other like pork chops. Buzz would tell his wife when he got home after his shift, “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if this being a deputy sheriff thing is right for me, honey. I’m thinking of applying at the auto plant. They’re hiring line workers right now.” The cops had put road flares 500 feet in front of the accident scene in
both directions. When the highway department arrived a short time later, big orange barrels were placed on the road to close off traffic. Two tow trucks arrived an hour and a half after the wreck to cart the totaled vehicles to the salvage yard. The pickup driver was placed in the back of the cruiser after the older veteran of law enforcement, who was madder than a mid-October hornet, informed Mr. Piss-Faced Pickup Driver that vehicular manslaughter brought with it a minimum of at least a dozen years in state prison. “There’s no way a judge is going to let this slide,” the old cop huffed. “Your Breathalyzer registered a twoeight. Drunk as Cooter Brown, ain’t ya’? You’re prime jailbird material now.” The bloated, higgledy-piggledy, shaggy-dogged, pickup driver began smashing his head against the cage between the backseat and the front seats of the cruiser. The thumping of
his head could be heard by the two officers, who didn’t do anything to stop the inebriated fool. Instead, the cops collected the debris from the highway. A few of the county’s highway department workers that stayed behind helped them. They threw the wrecked vehicle parts into a county maintenance pickup truck’s bed, which by then was overflowing with bent metal and mangled plastic vehicle body parts. “Fishing for damaged parts. Gone fishing for a big wreck,” the older officer said, as he picked up a piece of red plastic that was part of the Lincoln’s taillight. He walked over to the pickup and threw the taillight lens inside the bed. He began whistling some littlesomething song that only he knew the melody to, and grabbed a mangled shard of the pickup’s fender and threw it into the truck bed and managed a cryptic rictus.
Tennae Maki Concerning the Sound of Whispering Things She traced the surface of the nine little buttons on the face of the phone. She then picked up the receiver and then placed it back down. She did this over and over again, never uttering a single word. After a short while, she abandoned the phone, in favor of the spiral chord that it was attached to. Wrapping her fingers around it, six times over, her pinky and thumb were soon bound together. The front burner had just been flipped on. For a moment, she studied the blue flame dancing on the oven top; swallowing a silver kettle. The fire seemed to flick at the same pace as the knob did click. It needed to be turned down. De tangling herself from the chord in the kitchen, she made her way to the stove, thinking to turn the knob to the right. As she made to do so, she knocked the phone from its cradle and the dial tone began to cry.
In the other room, she heard the unmistakable warning of a waning fire alarm sound. She gave a small sigh and picked out a single battery from a nearby drawer, leaving the clicking flame and buzzing receiver to sing. In the nearby room, she saw that she and her intentions had been beaten. There was already a footstool placed below the harping alarm. Two sturdy feet stood upon the top stool, supporting a pair of hairy legs.
Mitch Kellaway Imagine Me
“That ain’t right.” Weaver waved a fry in a crescendo that stopped sharp at my nose. I could always tell the dude was heated when he slipped into his city swagger— something we usually tried hard to keep down when we were together in the office. He picked up his deep voice—damn, I wish I could do that—and tossed it above the noise of the Tavern’s Friday night. “Don’t get me wrong— I’m no expert on marriage. But if your wife can’t stand to look at your body, it sounds like there’s trouble in
paradise.” I could sense the group of guys around us nodding, blunt, carefully manly, even though my eyes were deadlocked on my cheeseburger. I took a bite and chewed slowly. “She’s not my wife,” I muttered to the table. If I had to be completely honest with myself—but who really wants to?—I couldn’t say I was so surprised. For the six years Lucia and I had been together, we kept several steps—then a few, then only one, really—ahead of the fact that I would become a man, soon as I worked
up the snuff. These days, it seemed to linger around our conversations, our lovemaking, like some unnamable cologne. And mostly, I ignored it. I blocked my nose; blocked my eyes, my ratwheel brain. But wouldn’t you know, it remained this thing, the blob, a potential, even as something about it seemed unreal. Even when I found myself looking down at my body as I casually spoke into the dark above our wide bed. Hear it’s easy to go about changing your name. Wouldn’t it be a
big honor to my grandfather to go by “Marlon”? And aren’t the changes Weaver got on testosterone a trip? Rick chimed in, as whiteboy cautious to reach conclusions as Weaver was eager. “Like, she slammed the door shut on you?” “Yeah,” I nodded, tight. “I was standing there, unzipping my jeans to take a piss as usual, and she just comes marching down the hallway and shuts the door. Bam.” For half a sec I was back inside the tremor of that hard sound; I’d always liked—though I can’t recall ever saying it aloud, come to think— how relaxed Lucia was
about what she called “the body’s needs.” Peeing is natural, she’d say, especially in the early days, why should we hide it? Really, she was all for resisting anything she saw as “patriarchal misogynistic bullshit.” Body shame, she pushed through gritted teeth. Denying the self. Meeting her had felt like putting a feverish face against a cool pane of glass. “I was so redhanded I got performance anxiety for a moment,” I continued with a weird chuckle sound I didn’t know my throat was holding onto. Pretty sure my mind telepathically beamed the image of how goofed I looked all
hunched and slack-jawed to the other guys, because their mouths moved into the same smirk. “Imagine me,” I forged on anyhow. “Standing there, cupping my junk, STP hanging out.“ The guys started howling. “You didn’t tell us you were using your standto-pee!” Weaver floated above it. He smiled and shook his shaved head; I could read, at this point, what it meant. Marlon you dense sonofabitch. I blinked, heels digging me back deep into my seat. “You know she just can’t stand the sight of you looking like a straight-up dude holding
his cock,” Weaver just a lopped circle dropped. His eyes ridged by teeth-marks. squinched down in knowing half-moons when I started slightly at the thought’s sharp corner. Cock. His lips spread into something tough to handle. I was falling into my head then, sinking—I’d always urinated with that lightness, always reached down and gripped the firmness of myself whenever primal nature called—until the echo-whoosh of the closing door and Lucia’s bitten, “I don’t need to see that,” snapped me out. I looked back down at my cheeseburger. I’d chewed all around the outside, and now it was
Contributors Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier is a photographer, writer and poet who loves finding the odd within the beautiful, the spark within the mundane and capturing the nightmare as well as the dream. Published internationally, regionally, as well as in heritage and military museums, she's been featured in Zen Dixie Magazine, Artemis Journal, Cactus Heart Press, Dactyl, Fine Flu Literary Journal, The Scarborough Big Art Book, Sand Canyon Review, The Notebook, Shadows and Light Anthology and Vagabonds Anthology to name a few of the creative places she dwells. Follow Karen @KBG_Tweets Karen Hildebrand Karen Hildebrand’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in various journals, including Blue Earth Review, Blue Mesa Review, Fourteen Hills, A Gathering of the Tribes, great weather for MEDIA, G.W. Review, The Journal, Maintenant, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Nimrod International Journal, and Poet Lore. Her play, "The Old In and Out," cowritten with Madeline Artenberg and adapted from their poetry, was produced in New York City in June 2013. Karen has had two chapbooks published, "One Foot Out the Door" and "Final Shot at Love," and her work has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
Mitch Kellaway Mitch Kellaway is a transgender writer and editor who currently contributes to The Advocate and the Lambda Literary Review. He earned a B.A. in Gender Studies from Harvard University. He has published (or has forthcoming) essays and articles in Original Plumbing, Cliterature, Outrider, Zeteo, and Jonathan. Tennae Maki Tennae Maki is a weekend writer that works for an architecture firm by day. She holds a Master's degree in Art History, where she studied architecture zines and urban planning. On a pro bono basis, she is also the audio archivist for a Brooklyn based arts radio station. Her work has been published in numerous print and digital literary journals, including; 491, Spillway, Eunoia Review, Futures Trading, The Bicycle Review, Lone Star Poetry Magazine, and Pure Francis. Julie Wittes Schlack Julie Wittes Schlack writes essays, short stories, and articles for the business press. Her essays regularly appear in Cognoscenti, and her work has been published or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Shenandoah, Writer’s Chronicle, The Louisville Review, Eleven Eleven, Ninth Letter, and Tampa Review. Julie received her MFA from Lesley University’s low-residency program. James Seals James Seals earned his MFA in Fiction at Southern New Hampshire University. His stories have been published in Amoskeag Journal, Forge Journal, Rio Grande
Review and others. James also has published an essay and numerous poems. His stories "White, Like You" (’13) and an excerpt, "Turned His Eyes Away" ('14), from his masters’ thesis, American Value, won SNHU’s graduate writing contest. SNHU's MFA faculty awarded James' masters' thesis the Lynn H. Safford Book Prize. Ani Tuzman Ani Tuzman is a writing mentor at Dance of the Letters Writing Center that she founded in 1982 to help children, teens, and adults experience the joys of writing. Years earlier, before leaving city life, she also cofounded A Kangaroo’s Pouch (El Buche del Canguro), a bilingual and multicultural school in the Boston area. Ani’s work has been published inCALYX, Mothering, Tikkun, Sanctuary, Darshan, FamilyFun, and Body Mind Spirit, among other journals and magazines. Her writing is included in such anthologies as "Chicken Soup For The Mother & Daughter Soul," "Divine Mosaic," and MotherPoet. Her poetry is also featured on two CDs, "Spirals Of Light" and "Poetry and Chamber Music on Themes Of The Holocaust." She has received the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Prize for Poems on the Jewish Experience and the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Creative Writers. Samuel Vargo Samuel Vargo has written poetry and short stories for print and online literary magazines, university journals and a few commercial magazines. Mr. Vargo worked most of his adult life as a newspaper reporter. He has a BA in Political Science and an MA in English (both degrees were awarded by Youngstown State University in Youngstown, Ohio, USA). Vargo was fiction editor of Pig Iron
Press, Youngstown, Ohio, for 12 years. A book-length collection of Vargo's short stories, titled "Electric Onion Head and the Rotating Cyclops of the Month," was published by Literary Road and had a web presence for five years.
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