Crack the Spine
Literary magazine
Issue 162
Issue 162 September 2, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine
CONTENTS Terry Sanville
The Pipe
John Marvin
The Church of Phenomenal Stretching
Jackson Braun Grub
Megan Merchant Consuming the Wick
Mark SaFranko
The Pride Parade
Daniel Moore Arousal
Melissa Marni
The Figaro
Terry Sanville The Pipe
A soft thump rattled Dylan’s second-story bedroom window. He threw back the covers, propped himself up, and rubbed his eyes in the morning light. A boy with spiky black hair and eyebrow rings crouched on the porch roof, lips curled in a permanent sneer, exposing bad teeth. Dylan scrambled from bed and pulled open the window. Scratch climbed over the sill and dropped into a chair. “What’s the deal, man? You can come in the front door, ya know.” Scratch grinned. “I didn’t wanna run into your Mom. Besides, I like climbin’ trees.” He motioned to the huge oak that grew next to the building. Dylan ducked into the bathroom but rejoined his friend quickly. He pulled on yesterday’s cargo shorts, his wristwatch, and a clean sweatshirt. “Give me a little time. I’ll catch up at the Seven-Eleven.” “Cool.” Scratch slipped through the window. He reached up and grabbed a limb, scrambled into the canopy and down the trunk. Mounting his mudspattered BMX, he peddled west into Santa Barbara’s Mesa neighborhood. Dylan hustled to tie his sneakers and tromp downstairs. He found his mother in the kitchen, sipping burnt-smelling coffee, her eyes half closed with dark patches beneath them. “How was work?” he asked. “Same ole crap-a-doodle. Two of the crew didn’t show up and I had to strip floors by myself…ruined a good pair of boots.” “You should quit that job and get something, ya know, better.”
“Words of wisdom from a kid who hasn’t worked a day in his life. Just wait. When you get a work permit, I’ll find you something better.” “Gee thanks.” He peeled a banana and gobbled it in three bites. His mother swiped auburn hair away from her face and managed a weak smile. “Sorry, Dylan. You enjoy the summer. You’ll have a lifetime of work ahead of you.” “Yeah, well I thought I’d head out to Hendry’s Beach. I read on Newshawk that a fishing boat ran aground off the Douglas Preserve. Anybody can, ya know, take stuff.” “You’re not going with that Scratch character, are you?” “He’s cool, Mom. He just likes to, ya know, scare people with that hair and piercing junk. You’d like his Mom. She’s really nice.” “Maybe we should do a play date…except I’ve got weird hours.” “Mom, we’re 13,” Dylan whined. “We don’t do play dates.” “I worry about you…about what you do with your creepy friend when I’m not around.” “I’m not gonna get in trouble, I promise.” “That’s what they all say.” She grabbed his sweatshirt, pulled him to her, and kissed him on the forehead. “So, you gonna stay for lunch? I can make us sandwiches, a BLT the way you like it?” “Nah, I’m not that hungry.” She reached for her purse and took out several bills. “Here, take this and buy something good for yourself – maybe a salad at Albertson’s.” “Thanks, Mom.” In the living room, he retrieved his bike and pushed through the screen. “Don’t do drugs,” she called after him, “and be home for dinner.”
He wondered how much she really knew, felt guilty about the sneaking around, the lying. They’d been living in cramped apartments all his life, following what jobs she could find. She’d never had time nor the money to finish college, never dated any dude for long, and always seemed exhausted. Jeez, if that’s what being an adult’s all about, I don’t know if I wanna…. In light traffic, he peddled to the intersection where Scratch waited outside the Seven-Eleven. A bunch of older dudes hung out on the bus bench and talked with his friend. When he rolled up, they shut up. “You ready?” Dylan asked. Scratch nodded and knuckle-bumped a pimply-faced Latino wearing a Raiders jersey. He felt glad that Scratch had scored for them, didn’t like the looks of the drugees, didn’t trust them. He knew if his mother ever caught him hanging with the neighborhood tweakers, they’d probably move. She’d done it before They rode west along the boulevard, raced down the long hill, and pulled into the parking lot at Hendry’s Beach. A stream of motorists followed them in, all looking for empty spaces in the overcrowded lot. Sunlight radiated off the asphalt and cars, the heat intense. The American and California flags hung limply on their pole. Scratch wiped his face with the front of his black T-shirt, revealing an ugly pink scar down his chest. “You got any money? I used all of mine to buy weed.” “Yeah, I got a little.” “Good. I’m starved. I didn’t eat breakfast.” “Why not?” “My Mom was hoggin’ the kitchen with some dude she’s been sleepin’ with. He doesn’t like me.”
“That’s tough.” “Doesn’t your Mom date? She’s definitely a hot babe.” Dylan gave him a shove. “Shut up about my Mom. She works too hard to mess around.” “Yeah, sure.” They locked their bikes to the rack beside the public toilets and ambled toward the Shoreline Restaurant, a classy place with cloth napkins and a highpriced menu. Inside, they ordered French fries and cokes. When the waitress delivered the food, Dylan laid his money on the counter. She looked relieved, then pissed when he left her only two quarters for a tip. They headed east along the beach. A weak Santa Ana wind fanned the low waves crowded with surfers – punks on their short boards and a few older dudes, all jockeying for the sweet spot and threatening to drop in on each other. They reminded Dylan of his father and the nightstand photograph taken at Leadbetter Beach: his Pop wearing a wetsuit with orange side panels, clutching his board, and grinning. Dylan had been too young to remember much about their life together. He relied on his mom’s stories to fill in the blanks. Scratch dug him in the ribs. “Earth to Dylan, come back, earth to Dylan.” He grinned, sheepishly. “Sorry, I was…was thinking about my Pop.” “Yeah, bummer. Come on. Let’s get to the wreck before there’s nothin’ left.” They ran toward a rocky point, streaking along the narrow beach backed by towering cliffs topped with cypress and oaks. But after a short sprint, Scratch slowed to a walk, coughing and beating his chest. They continued eastward without talking. Dylan sucked in a deep breath and stared at the varnished Pacific that lay between the mainland and sun-baked Santa Cruz Island. When he was little, his mother told him stories about how she and his father had
camped there, had hiked the island’s ridgelines and ocean coves. Ever since then, he’d imagined stowing away on some schooner or maybe a catamaran, slipping past the breakwater guarding Santa Barbara harbor, and sailing the whitecapped sea to Scorpion Landing. He’d jump ship, push through the surf and across the rocky shore, build a fire in the valley campground, and lay where his parents had once been, enjoying the feel of family, if only in his dreams. Scratch continued to cough, his breath rattling in his chest. Reaching the point, they found a forty-foot trawler named the Wistful Wind, her hull holed at the port-side bow. Scavengers crowded her deck and wheelhouse, many with hammers and pry bars, taking anything they could carry away. “Looks like a bunch of folks read the same report,” Dylan said. “By tonight, only her engine will be left. You wanna try getting something?” Scratch stood bent over with his hands on his knees. “My asthma…feels like…I’m drownin’.” He pulled an inhaler from his jeans and took a couple puffs, sucking in breaths slow and deep. “Come on, let’s rest awhile.” Dylan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and guided him up the beach to the dry sand at the base of the cliff. Scratch sat with his back to the chalky shale. “Sorry, man…didn’t mean…to slow…us down.” “Maybe you should, like, stop smoking, even weed.” “Are you kiddin’? Weed…loosens me up.” “I don’t know about that. You could hurt yourself.” “Mind your own…business…will ya?” “Yeah, sorry.” Dylan leaned back on his elbows and watched the combers roll up the beach, chasing little kids away from the edge. Finally, Scratch pushed himself up. He
scraped at the dry patches of flaking skin on his elbows and forearms. They looked raw and ugly, psoriasis, his Mom had called it. Dylan wondered how a kid his own age could have so many things going wrong…and then there were the scars on his wrists. It didn’t seem fair. But Scratch never complained, and he admired him for it. They wandered up the shoreline toward the restaurant, sloshing through the cold water and throwing stones at seagulls. Near the parking lot, Scratch stopped. “I’ve scored some dynamite grass from my boys. They also sold me some ‘E.’” “What the heck is ‘E’?” “Ecstasy, stupid. Don’t you know anything?” “Hey, I’ve heard that stuff’s bad news. I promised my Mom I’d–” “We’ll smoke some weed first to mellow out. The E will just speed us up a bit.” “I don’t know about….” “Come on, don’t be such a baby.” They climbed the low bank at the back of the beach and walked inland along the edge of the parking lot that bordered Arroyo Burro Creek. The stream flowed out of a long shallow valley and into the sea. But during the summer it formed a squalid slough behind the beach, the backwater covered with algae and bird poop and stinking like rotten eggs. A huge drainage pipe passed under the parking lot and emptied into the slough. The pipe’s open end could be reached from a pile of boulders scattered beneath it along the slough bank. Scratch clambered over the rocks and pulled himself inside with Dylan right behind him. “I don’ think anybody saw us,” Scratch whispered.
“Good. Jeez, it’s hot in here.” “Yeah, and it’s gonna get worse. Come on.” They moved into the darkness. Dylan tried duck walking but kept banging his head on the ceiling. They crawled toward a distant glow, too faint to be direct sunlight, but brighter than the gloom they passed through. Scratch wheezed. They stopped and he used his inhaler. The blackness closed in on Dylan. He felt the weight of the earth above him, pressing downward. The pipe slanted up the hill that formed the west side of the valley. They pushed forward, the light growing stronger, until the tube leveled off and they reached a concrete vault. Overhead, an open drainage grate cast shadows on the floor, reminding him of the jail bars in old western movies. A ratty piece of carpet covered one side of the vault. They sat on the rug and rubbed their sore knees. Dylan pulled a water bottle from his cargo shorts and gave it to Scratch, who downed half. Dylan finished it off. Scratch rolled a joint and took a deep toke before passing it. They smoked the number wordlessly and started on another. Dylan fought to keep his eyes open. The light brightened then faded as clots of afternoon fog drifted onshore. The slow strobe effect made him giggle. Scratch joined in, their laughter echoing down the pipe. They leaned back against the wall and stared with dilated eyes. “Now’s time for a lil’ pick-me-up,” Scratch said and pulled out a tiny bottle. He emptied the green pills into the palm of his hand and offered them to Dylan. “How many should I, ya know, take?” “Don’ know.” Scratch popped three into his mouth and swallowed. Dylan took one pill and downed it. “I gotta be careful. If I OD, my Mom will be pissed.”
“You’re such a mama’s boy.” Scratch punched his arm and giggled. He handed Dylan the remains of the blunt and leaned back, chin on chest. Dylan finished the joint and curled into a ball. The vault seemed to grow hotter, like someone had turned up the flame on a gas burner. He closed his eyes and breathed slow and easy, hoping the weed would keep him calm. Everything went quiet. But in what felt like just a few seconds, low guttural growls made him sit up. Scratch crouched on his haunches below the grate, beating on the bars with his fists. His cries became frantic. He stared wild-eyed at Dylan. “Help me, will ya…we gotta get out…” “Take it easy, man.” Scratch continued to beat on the grate. He put his back against the steel and pushed upward; but it wouldn’t budge. “I gotta go, gotta get…get….” He glanced at Dylan then threw himself into the pipe and scrambled uphill into that part of the labyrinth they’d never explored. Dylan followed, but stopped before the darkness overtook him. His friend’s shrieks grew fainter until they faded to silence. Returning to the vault, he shuddered, as if in a fever dream. His heart pounded and he beat on his thighs with closed fists, trying to decide. He slipped his cell phone from a pocket – wanting to call Scratch, to talk him back – but could get no reception. Dylan hauled ass down the pipe toward the slough. The lifeguards will know…my Mom’s gonna be pissed…Scratch is right, I am a mama’s boy. He fell several times. His knees bled from being slammed against the corrugated metal. At the pipe’s open end he lowered himself onto the rocks and climbed to the parking lot. Colossal rain clouds filled the sky and a cold wind howled. The flags stood taut. The lot was nearly empty and the remaining cars looked weird, old models in nearly-new condition. He ran
toward the restaurant but jerked to a stop. A tacky-looking cafe stood in its place, with a sign pasted above its take-out window, “Closed for Winter.” Dylan spun and stared at the beach, at the thunderous surf with white water everywhere, at the lifeguard stations boarded shut. The clouds opened and sheets of rain drenched him. A group of surfers huddled at water’s edge, gathered around something. Dylan ran toward them, yelling, “My friend…ya gotta help…he’s in the pipe…going crazy, you gotta…” The surfers didn’t hear, or chose to ignore him. He yelled louder but no one turned. He slipped into the crowd, and moved to its center. Two dudes in swim trunks bent over a man lying on his back in the sand. One pushed on the guy’s chest and counted while the other performed mouth-to-mouth. The man wore a wetsuit with orange side panels. His muscles bulged beneath the black rubber, his handsome face looked…familiar. A wave of white foam pushed up the strand toward them, carrying with it pieces of surfboard. The two dudes stopped CPR and stood, shaking their heads. Nausea flowed through Dylan. He dropped to his knees next to the guy, pressed a hand against the man’s chest, but felt nothing. Breathing hard through his mouth, he broke free from the group, and staggered across the beach to the bike rack. But their BMXs had vanished. He headed toward the slough and the pipe opening. A thick stream of brown water poured from its mouth. In a cloudburst, he climbed inside and sloshed toward the faint light, his muscles aching. His mouth burned from the bitter taste of the E. He pictured his friend huddled in some shadowy reach of the death tube, high in the hills above the valley, scratching at his scaling arms, his lungs struggling to fill with air as water poured in through grates that drained Hope Ranch and the rich peoples’ streets and homes.
As he neared the light, heat once again slammed him. He lost his balance and fell. His head pounded. He heard low rumbling sounds. Reaching the vault, he found Scratch leaning against a wall, head back, snoring. He closed his eyes and everything went quiet. When his breathing slowed, he crawled to his friend and shook him hard. Scratch woke with a start. “What? Waddaya doin’?” “Glad you’re okay, man. When you ran away, I thought I’d…I’d never see you again.” “What’re you talkin’ about, dude? I didn’t run.” “Sure you did…and I went to get help…but instead I found my…my…” “You didn’t go nowhere, man,” Scratch said and grinned. You were sleepin’ before I was.” “You’re kidding me. That can’t be right. Jeez, that E really is bad news. Forget that stuff.” “Yeah, I hear ya. But those idiots didn’t sell me E. Probably some kinda serious downers. We’re lucky we woke up at all.” Dylan crawled to the far side of the vault and slumped against the wall, his eyelids heavy, heart thudding like a slow-beating bass drum. He stared dumbly at his knees, the scrapes still raw and oozing. But Scratch wouldn’t leave him alone. “Come on, man. Let’s get outta here. You got any money left? I need somethin’ ta eat.” “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” They moved down the pipe toward the opening and the smell of rotting algae. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut for one last time and prayed that the storm had disappeared, that he’d find summer skies and gentle seas outside.
John Marvin
The Church of Phenomenal Stretching it doesn’t take a Husserl to connect her plots first you must never forget and regret women are for bearing and raising sons and keep them clean shaven and humble while supernatural beings of which there is only one except mere humans have never known and intoned which one and he explains Pascal’s gamble but they demand creation and sensation having ejaculated our one and only world in a word of coming and becoming and you try landing Leviathan with rod and reel even real champions can’t pull off that job and there should be an alter ego or halter as the old folks used to say gathered round campfires in the middle of summer when the livin’ is easy and flies bite leaving welts on exposed lies
who’s supposed to be clean shaven the women or the sons worshipped until puberty exposed to the elements chock full of hallucinogens conjuring visions and revisions of sugar bums and delicious maidens on rose petals dripping with dew in the meadow where corn glistens like snow forests full of frolicking leopards waiting and awaiting under the chestnut tree with the clang and the heat and the sparks and the sizzle of cold water turned to steam by the penetration of the red hot rod after which she is made uncomfortable by his withering gaze since she doesn’t know him and he smiles but his eyes betray his thoughts his unwelcome attention and inattention stretching perception out of the common place into the rare where the stare of original grin demeans possibilities on the invisible border between clarity and banality
Jackson Braun Grub
This is what it feels like to wake up when you never fell asleep in the first place. You’re on the floor and the floor is hard. You want medicine. You are tired of counting the hours since the last time you slept, really slept, according to the stages of sleep. You can count that high but right now you can’t. Your eyeballs hurt, like they’ve always hurt, you just never admitted it before. These are the four cups of coffee that get progressively more dilute. The coffee lubricates your lips so you can smile a little. You don’t know why you want to smile. You do upper-body calisthenics when you can’t find any cigarettes. Triceps, deltoids, pecs, and abs. Whenever you start a new muscle group, you wish you’d put on motivational music before starting that muscle group. You wish there were an exercise that could fix your eyes. This is the cigarette you found in the kitchen garbage, sitting there amongst discarded foods. The cigarette is moist and looks like it’s playing dead. When you light the cigarette it doesn’t light how a cigarette is supposed to. You inhale hard but feel no smoke so you inhale and fail again. You check the end of the cigarette and discover a maggot. The maggot is charred, dead from fire. You drop it in the garbage and smoke the cigarette and wonder if this is what maggot tastes like. This is a prospective maggot-invasion-induced panic attack. Trash bags triple-tied then flung down the stairwell. Condiments spilled across the floor, inspected by fingertip. Showers and incense. Clothes soaked in the kitchen sink
with dish soap. Fly swatters. Dry-heaving. Motivational music meant for exercising to. You try again to sleep but sense yourself trapped inside a colossal exerciseorb filled with maggots. You run and the exercise-orb revolves in-place. Colossal maggots drop down on you. This is a Xanax tablet your friend from Spain gave you. You pulverize and snort it. This is the sunlight that comes through the one window in your apartment at this time of day. You cannot sleep with this sunlight. You leave your apartment. This is your favorite spot in the park. The trees, the pond, the ducks, and the skyscrapers make it an ideal spot for affirming your insignificance. Sometimes you fall asleep here. This is the story you’re reading about a boy who might dive into a swimming pool. The pool is deep and the boy is small and scared. He eventually dives, you think. You don’t know if you finished the story. Maybe it was an article. You hope the boy didn’t drown. You would feel bad if it was a news article and you don’t remember the boy drowning.
This is the restaurant where your friend of Indian descent made dinner reservations. It’s an all-organic, mostly-vegetarian restaurant in Midtown. The reservations are for 5:15 p.m. Your Indian-descent friend has never had a girlfriend and he calls his father Father. He expresses his feelings shamelessly and flaunts his Brahmin lineage and has never digested any food with meat as an ingredient. He’s in Med School. His marriage will be arranged. He recently started having sex with an EastAsian-descent undergrad originally from Missouri, but before that he was a
virgin. He’s terrified of falling for the East-Asian-decent girl because then he’ll want to marry her and then his parents will learn about the sex. He’s convinced somehow they’ll just know. Your friend’s father was a biochemist in India but now he cleans bathrooms at a public school in New Jersey. You imagine him explaining out-loud the chemical reactions while he scrubs. Teenagers pissing and smoking, Father in his jumpsuit, speaking Telugu, describing the effect urinal deodorizer has on pee-pee particles. His son, your friend, across the river, fucking some EastAsian descent girl in her dormitory. You sit at a table-for-two by the window. It’s raining and you wait for your Indian-descent friend. You call him your friend because he believes you are a moral man. He thinks people enjoy being around you so one day you could be a volunteer or a congressman. You take both table spoons to the unisex restroom and crush up a Xanax and snort it and return to the table by the window. Both spoons fit in one pocket. These are the textbooks your friend of Indian descent sets on the table when he arrives. Essential Chemical Anatomy and Medical Physiology and Pathophysiology of Disease. You order a bottle of red wine and your Indian-descent friend orders mango milk. You wonder if his hair looks like that from the rain or just because it always looks like that. This is an impromptu lecture your Indian-descent friend gives you on why drugs are bad. He tells you your brain is a delicate organ, like any other organ. You may possess common sense but the drugs increase dopamine and dopamine overrides the part of the amygdala that controls common sense. He has studied the pathways of addiction. You’re not addicted now but you will
become addicted and your addiction will override your common sense. You think you can control your brain but you can’t. Caution is irrelevant. Stop messing around with things you don’t understand. He is studying to be a doctor. A fucking doctor. He’s going to save lives and he’d rather not have to save yours. He’d rather save the lives of underprivileged children. You are ignorant and selfish. Promise you won’t do cocaine again. No hard drugs. You can’t control the dopaminergic pathway. It is his business because you’re his friend. No, he isn’t your father. A father only has the knowledge of one father but he has the knowledge of a thousand scientists. If you ever get addicted, do everyone a favor and jump off a tall building. Don’t say you don’t care. You’re an asshole. You ask your Indian-descent friend to pour you more wine while you visit the restroom. This is the food they brought while you were gone. Cold tofu salad and seared dumplings with red beans and leeks oozing out. You did not order this food and, judging from the glares coming from the gray-haired couple to your right, it might be their food. You prod a dumpling with two fingers and say this isn’t what you ordered. The gray-haired man summons the waiter and the waiter confiscates the plates. You order another bottle of red. This is the food you ordered. Nova Scotia salmon for you and veggie stew for your Indian-descent friend. The stew is opaque and boggy. You give your friend both spoons from your pocket. Your Indian-descent friend thinks it’s honorable that you care about animals and children. He loves people who love innocence. You are a good person, he says. That’s why he’s your friend. Because you are a good friend.
This is your Indian-descent friend sharing his feelings. He says his parents have learned to love each other because forty years will teach anyone to love anyone. Their love is mature love but maybe it isn’t true love. He likes those movies where you know the boy and girl will end up together – from the first scene it’s obvious. But at the end the boy and girl are so happy that it makes him happy. That’s how the East-Asian-descent girl makes him feel. Happy like the movies. His parents would never understand because they met on their wedding day and then learned to love each other. Maybe true love isn’t mature. But the divorce rate in America is out of control so that’s not true love either. There has to be a way of combining the two; Indian love and American love. Your Indian-descent friend has tried to talk to the East-Asian-descent girl about this stuff but she always gets weirded-out. He thinks you could make her understand because you’re handsome. You are handsome but you don’t take advantage of it. You don’t love the right way and love is what matters. Your Indian-descent friend wants to know what you feel like after two bottles of red wine. Something is happening to his stomach. He’s never once had a bite of salmon or a single sip of wine. This is the dessert menu you are struggling to read. The print is slanted and blurry. This is your Indian-descent friend trying not to cry. You hope it wasn’t something you said. This is what the East-Asian descent girl must feel like when she’s weirdedout. Your Indian-descent friend clutches his stomach and groans that this is bad. It’s really bad. You also feel bad so you swallow another Xanax. The gray-haired
couple suddenly has a red flower on their table and it makes you feel inadequate. Your Indian-descent friend is on the floor and people are watching him. You say over and over that he’s kidding. Stop looking so worried, people. He’s just kidding. This is the handful of leftover Nova Scotia salmon you’ll throw at the grayhaired couple on your way to the restroom. Your Indian-descent friend slings his arm over your shoulder and you feel like a war hero. The gray-haired man salutes. You can’t find the salmon that was just in your hand. Your Indian-descent friend gets sick in the restroom while you wait outside. Two cooks and a man in a suit are arguing over how much chicken stock slipped into the veggie stew and who should be blamed. You start cursing the establishment. What kind of fucking establishment is this, you curse. There’s hogwash in the stew and it poisoned your friend. He’s Brahmin. The royalty. You point at the gray-haired man and say he switched foods with you. You had the vegetarian but he gave your Brahmin friend meat stew. He has plans. Beware that guy with the gray hair, you say. This is the toilet you are hugging. Sickness residue from your Indian-descent friend mottles the seat. All those textbooks didn’t teach him how to puke right. You exit the restroom and your Indian-descent friend is waiting first in-line. There’s scum on his lips and he asks why you’re sick. You say everything tastes like maggot. He agrees.
Megan Merchant Consuming the Wick
A monarch floats by the open door, flimsy as memory. I swear, as a girl, there were hundreds of summery stick-wings like walking plows turning the air in our backyard, and when they scattered, the edges of sky torched and frayed.
Mark SaFranko The Pride Parade
Woodbridge was a rabid fan of mine who was making his first visit to New York. He wanted to know whether I could meet him for a beer. He was having a fling with an American painter from Kentucky he met in London, but he wanted to break away from her for a day or two since he wasn’t sure he was going to continue the relationship. He was a Cockney, and she was too much of a blueblood for his liking. They’d be staying in Boston when they landed and he’d travel down to see me. As always, I needed to get out of the house. I try to convince myself that something interesting might happen if I do -- a woman, some crazy experience - but I tend to stay holed up like a mad hermit, banging on the computer or piano keys. Sometimes I think I’m missing life altogether as it goes by outside the window, but that’s the writer’s life. Observe, write, observe, write. To be great or even good at what you do, you can’t stop working -- though it never feels like work to me. Proofreading pharmaceutical prescribing information or loading tractor trailers, that’s work. Anyway, in order to keep your tools, you have to continuously whet them, there’s no way around it. Writers are an odd breed. I told Woodbridge I’d meet him at Penn Station when he got in, and for the rest of the day I’d be his tour guide around Manhattan since he wanted to be a sightseer for the day. On the way over, I kept thinking about how strange it was that I had a following in Europe for my books, and how it always seemed unreal when I was still a virtual nobody here in my native land. As if to prove the point,
practically every day a new email would find its way into my box proclaiming my greatness and, worse, asking for advice -- as if I knew anything about how to become a success as a writer. Some days I’d wake up and think, I’m a somebody across the ocean, but here no one’s ever even heard of me. If I dropped dead on the pavement, no one would give a damn. Like most things in life it defied reason and made no sense at all. Then I’d think how lucky I was to be anonymous, to be able to walk down a street anywhere in America and be just another piece of shit floating along. I, Max Zajack, was one of the rare people in the world who had it both ways. If I needed attention, I could go to Paris or London and get it. If I wanted to be left alone, like I normally did, I could stay put in the United States. One day it would all change, for better or worse. Nothing good ever stays the same. The trick is appreciating whatever it is when you have it. This time around, I’m trying to do it. It was the end of June, just early summer, but the streets of New York were already as hot as the inside of blast furnace. No complaints from me, since I loathe the cold. All year long I wait for winter to breathe its last so I can go back to the T shirt and short pants and forget about coats and hats and boots. I’m made for the tropics, and have always entertained fantasies of living permanently in a place like Key West or Miami or someplace even hotter. In the shadows of Madison Square Garden were the usual assortment of bodies, some drunk, some crazy, some homeless. I descended the steps into the bowels of the train station. It was Sunday afternoon, but the place was bustling with travelers bound for various resorts -- the Hamptons, the Jersey Shore, even Cape Cod and Florida. I looked up at the big board and figured out that Woodbridge’s train would be rolling into track number eight.
Within minutes I was drenched with sweat. I leaned against a grimy column and watched the people come and go in all directions, like ants streaming out of different nests. How the hell would I recognize Woodbridge? I’d seen his photo on the internet, but everyone knows that photos have little to do with how a person actually looks.... Ten minutes passed, fifteen. I became absorbed in checking out the women. New York teems with beauties, all of them out of reach unless you’re rich. Whenever one of them caught my eye, my mouth watered. Then I remembered Woodbridge. I began walking in circles looking for a thirty-something Englishman with auburn hair and a reddish beard. I’d given him my cell number; maybe he’d remember to dial it if he couldn’t find me. More time passed and no Woodbridge. Maybe he was just slow getting off the train. Maybe he got confused and went in the wrong direction. Maybe there was no cell phone service down on the track. Maybe he’d decided to ditch the trip from Boston after all and forgotten to tell me.... I’d gone back to holding up a column when I heard a voice. “’Ay, Max!” The Cockney accent caught me off guard. We shook hands. Well, I had to say that Woodbridge looked a lot like his photo, all right. His fair skin was very red. He shook his head. “Jesus Christ, is it always this fucking hot?” When I told him yes, his eyes widened. “It’s as bleedin’ ’ot as it was in fuckin’ Thailand!” Woodbridge had once operated a bar on the beach there. He ought to know heat and humidity. “Welcome to New York in summer, man.”
Woodbridge was booked into a hotel all the way downtown near the demolished twin towers. With that in mind, the plan was that we would wend our way through the many different lower Manhattan neighborhoods so he would get a taste of at least a chunk of the Big Apple, then he’d end up at his hotel. In the morning he’d take a boat cruise around the island before jetting to Kentucky, where his lady would be waiting for him. We made our way up to the street and started walking. “See that, up there, vaulting over the rest of it?” “Yeah?” “The Empire State Building.” “And this here, to your left?” “Right?” “Madison Square Garden. They make a big deal of it here, but it doesn’t have much in the way of character.” Woodbridge nodded. His jaw had dropped open a little. He looked a bit overwhelmed by it all. “See that guitar store? It’s one of the most overpriced joints in the whole world....” He wasn’t interested in guitar stores. He kept saying, “So this is where all the great writers passed through....” Aside from Henry Miller and one or two others, I didn’t know who he was referring to, but I didn’t want to burst his bubble. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of Woodbridge. Whatever I said, he smiled. Maybe he was a little daffy. His face seemed redder than ever. “Now we’re crossing into Chelsea,” I announced when Twenty-third Street was in view.
“Chelsea?” “Yeah, like in London.” “I had the idea it was on the other side of the town.” “No, you’re smack in it. Right over there is the Chelsea Hotel.” “Ah!” This seemed to excite Woodbridge. “Yeah, you know, lots of people hung out there, from the truly great, like Twain and Sartre, to the fakers like Edie Sedgwick and the no-talents like Patti Smith.” We walked over and Woodbridge stepped into the lobby. “Smells like cat piss,” he said when he came out. He seemed fascinated that next door a storefront was filled with fishing rods. “Where the hell do you fish in New York City?” he wondered. I tried to explain to him that when people are desperate, they’ll try anything. We walked on. It was even hotter now than it was before. The water was trickling off me in lukewarm streams, saturating my shirt and pants. “How about a drink,” I suggested. “Yeah,” Woodbridge agreed. “As soon as possible.” “Tell you what. We can walk over to Hudson Street and grab a beer at the White Horse. That’s where Dylan Thomas was banging them down the day he died. Not that I’m a fan or anything.” Woodbridge’s eyes brightened for the first time. “Eighteen whiskies, wasn’t it?” I began to suspect that the red in my fan’s face wasn’t from the heat, but from the booze he swilled. I’d heard stories from mutual acquaintances that he liked to get bombed and cause scenes, especially with people he didn’t like.
Moving more slowly than ever, we turned towards the river. Suddenly it wasn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon anymore. Something was happening up ahead. Two women, their faces painted garishly, went hustling past us in a great hurry. “What the fuck,” said Woodbridge, turning to watch them. “Must be a costume ball or somethin’.” “Or the female version of Lord Of The Flies.” We kept walking. There was a strange feel in the air -- you can sense these things. There were more of them, males now as well as females. Faces slashed green and scarlet and orange, all dressed in outlandish trash. There were fat guys in G strings. Old men in granny dresses. A middle-aged gent in a violet gown embroidered with the words “PANSY POWER.” “Shit. We just wandered into the Gay Pride celebration,” I said to Woodbridge. I hadn’t been paying attention to the calendar. When it came to social events, I never did. Today was the day of the greatest, most flamboyant homosexual parade in the Western world and it had somehow gotten by me. We were smack in the middle of the hoi polloi now. The mob was swarming around us, males, females, women who had turned themselves into men and vice versa. Unidentified genders. Even gay canines. Woodbridge’s eyes were wide. It was a real spectacle, all right. “The problem,” I said, looking for a means of escape, “is that we have to get through all of this in order to make it downtown. And we’re nowhere near the subway.” “Look there,” said Woodbridge, stopping dead.
She was less than a block away, an undulating mirage in the desert. When we got closer I was that she was young, Amazonian, and beautiful. And naked, except for a string bikini bottom and those Roman sandals that for some reason drive me insane. She looked straight ahead like a statue, refusing to countenance the presence of mere mortals. I stared at her tits. Nobody but Woodbridge and I seemed to notice her. Then again, the thousands of men around us were homosexuals. “Maybe this ain’t so bad after all,” my companion chuckled. Wherever we looked, there were other beautiful women. By themselves, in pairs or trios. Some smiled at us. Were they marooned straights or lesbians? Or just fag hags? All were dressed in wild costumes. Why would a beautiful woman want to spend a hot summer day marching for gay liberation? Obviously I didn’t understand lots of beautiful women. Much more frustrating was the fact that street after street was blockaded and Woodbridge and I were trapped. Every time I tried to steer us in the direction of the river, a cop on a horse would push us back. “But we’re not part of this thing,” I protested. “It’s all a mistake!” Every one of them ignored me. Now we were moving east, towards Brooklyn, in the opposite direction of where we wanted to go. The mob had swollen into a huge, gushing river of sweating, stinking, shouting humanity. We were being herded like cattle, and there was no way out. “Jesus fuck,” said Woodbridge. “Sorry, man.” “What happened to the White Horse?” Woodbridge yelled. “It’s in the other direction.” “’Ow’d that ’appen?”
“Shit, I don’t know! Your guess would be as good as mine!” Seventh Avenue...Sixth Avenue...Fifth Avenue. We were stranded on the parade route itself. Somehow, before we realized it, we’d become part of the cavalcade. “Sorry, man,” I said for the sixth or seventh time. “Get me outa here,” said Woodbridge. He was beginning to sound panicstricken. Maybe, like so many people, he was claustrophobic. “I’m trying my best, man.” After today, I figured, Woodbridge wasn’t coming back to New York anytime soon. If anything, he’d move to Kentucky or never leave London again. We were in the center of Ninth Street, being swept along with the all the other marchers. “WHOOOOOO-OOOOO!” The obese man in brassiere and panties behind us was trying his best to burst my eardrums. I waved to the spectators, who lined the sidewalks six and seven deep. Why the hell not? If I was part of the parade, I might as well play the part. In turn, the spectators shouted and screamed, urging us on. Some waved flags and pennants calling for freedom from oppression by the government, society, even God. It was insane. Wherever I looked, there were more hot half-naked babes. What gave? They couldn’t all be dykes, could they? Somehow Woodbridge and I got ourselves surrounded by a gang of muscular S and M fairies on Harleys. From behind the police barricades a chant went up. “GAY PRIDE! GAY PRIDE! GAY PRIDE! GAY PRIDE!” Everyone but us seemed to be in a frenzy. Woodbridge was right. It was getting to be too much.
“Let’s make a run for it,” I shouted to him. He looked downright terrified. “RUN -- TO WHERE?” I pointed. “THERE! NOW!” Bad knee, bad back and all, I suddenly bolted across the street towards the ramparts. “HEY! HEY, YOU! YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” I looked over my shoulder. The guy yelling at me was an overweight cop. He was as red in the face as a boiled lobster. His hand was on his baton. He took a step towards me, but there were too many marchers blocking his way. Just then a flat carrying shimmying bodybuilders in speedos nearly ran him over. Woodbridge was right behind me, grunting like a hog. “GO! GO! GO!” I clambered over the wooden horse, toppling it in the process. Woodbridge knocked over the adjacent one. We were free, finally free. We fought our way through the spectators, who were pushing forward, trying to crush us. I balled my fists, ready to punch anyone who got in my way. After several minutes of struggle, the sidewalks opened up, and we were on our way. It seemed like the entire city of New York wanted to be either part of or watching the great gay event. “I never thought we’d get the fuck out of there,” puffed Woodbridge. “Christ Almighty. Neither did I.” “I need a drink,” said Woodbridge when we made it all the way down to Houston Street. “You’re not the only one.”
After we crossed the boulevard the heavens opened and the rain came down in buckets. We managed to just make it under the copper canopy of an apartment building. “Nice,” said Woodbridge, looking up. “Don’t get comfortable. In New York, they don’t like you squatting.” But no one made us move along. We sat there undisturbed until the rain stopped. Just like that, it was sunny again. “Like the tropics,” Woodbridge observed. “Just like I said.” “Only the drinks are cheaper in the tropics. You’ll see.” We ducked into a bar and ordered designer beers. I apologized again for the Pride parade. Then we began to talk about all the writers we hated. Smith...Jones... O’Dowell. “That fucking book about his meth addiction was really bad.” “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” For the first time, we were laughing. I liked the fact that Woodbridge and I were on the same page about these matters. He downed beer after beer in rapid succession. After the third or fourth, his face was reddish-purple, the color of a beet. When he got off the stool, Woodbridge staggered a little. “Come on, man. We’re almost there.” In another twenty-five minutes we’d arrived at the Marina, where there was a magnificently clear view of the lady in the harbor, as the tour guides call her. We grabbed a pair of easy chairs in the outside area of a bistro. “What should we have now?” “How about margaritas?”
“Ladies’ drinks,” I said. “In honor of the day.” The waitress brought us a pair, watermelon and peach. “Now this is the life.” We were on number three when she came gliding across the esplanade. She was all hips and legs and she knew how to move everything the right way. Her tight little white dress was riding up her ass. She was black, too, always a fantasy. Maybe this would be my lucky day after all. I began to think about why a man ever got married. “What have we here?” said Woodbridge. Maybe he was the one who’d get lucky. Women were suckers for a British accent. “She’s something, all right.” She pulled up in front of us and looked from Woodbridge to me. “Which one of you gentlemen is going to buy me a margarita this afternoon? They look really yummy.” Neither of us answered. The black lady’s voice was deeper than Woodbridge’s. Hell, it was deeper than mine. We looked at one another. “She’s all yours, man,” I mumbled. “I think you’re the wrong party,” Woodbridge said. “Your party is at the other end of town.” “What makes you think I wasn’t already there?” Woodbridge shook his head. “I’m not interested.” “What -- are you interested in girls?” “As a matter of fact, I am.” “I’m just as good.” “I’m sure you are,” said Woodbridge. “But I don’t ’appen to ’ave any desire to stick my prick up your arse.”
“I don’t know about that. All you English guys are nothing but faggots.” “Not this one, honey.” “Cheap bastard,” huffed the African princess. He sashayed off. A few seconds later, he was working a dude on a few tables away. At that moment, the sun began its descent behind the statue’s robes. “I know I’ve said it before, Woodbridge, but sorry.” “It’s okay, man. It’s okay.” He took another swig of his drink. I did, too. Some days it’s like that. Wherever you turn, you get fooled. And sometimes it doesn’t turn out so badly.
Daniel Moore Arousal
Arousal, the plot of a million hormones outside the realm of theological debate, inside the realm of boy meets girl, the lengthy conversation of how it feels when the best part of me is swims toward you, rising from the depths like a mythical monster, land bound, flesh bound, nothing spiritual in sight. Only a circle of deep pink corral, far below the surface where your breath breathes mine, once, twice, hold it till we’re blue, till both faces break the cold black world into soft wet tomorrows grieving for a time when life was a sea of arousal, when shipwreck was a sign we had found the shore.
Melissa Marni The Figaro
Of all the details to remember, her hands were still the clearest in his mind. Unpolished nails of otherworldly innocence, intoxication by way of ten fingers and smooth skin and a wrist circled with Rolex Sky-Dweller gold, limited edition. Back to her hands. What did he later call them, windows to her soul? They appeared in stark, shimmering contradiction to that glassy skeleton known as the Makuhari Messe, an oversized structure built on the edge of Chuba City, where the 28th Tokyo Motor show was housed. If such a thing as young love existed, it was born for her from the 1989 airconditioned air of the Makuhari Messe and there grew to become a nervous child of mumbled ‘hello’s and ‘what is your name’s. “Duke Raskipper.” (Perhaps.) “Mirabelle Quick.” She was in town to sing Shirley Bassey songs at a Japanese karaoke lounge then purchase her very first car, he to begin a four-month backpacking expedition from Tokyo to Kagoshima and look at foreign vehicles he might never afford. “My friend had a free ticket,” Duke shrugged. They were from the beginning two separate ends temporarily bound beneath lofty ceilings and between shiny automobiles, fuel-injected symbols of a fate just beyond his cunning reach. A small vehicle at the center of the showroom kept them together with the strongest force …
This was a Figaro, boasting enough retro panache to take its lucky driver “back to the future,” at least according to the salesman Hayate, his narrow face overpowered by a smile more syrupy than sincere. The Figaro was Nissan’s newest, latest and greatest, Hayate explained, a car constructed by brilliant engineers – the Pike Factory group – to be something special. He emphasized this word as if, in the centuries-long history of its use, it had never been spoken with such true meaning before. A pause. A beat. Hayate was shorter than both Duke and Mirabelle but described features of the Figaro with the enthusiasm to seem a head taller than he stood. Chest puffy from eagerness, Hayate told them how the Figaro would come in one of four colors, each representing a particular season – Topaz Mist (summer), Emerald Green (spring), Pale Aqua (autumn) or Lapis Grey (winter). “Autumn is always the most pleasant time of year in London,” Mirabelle whispered to no one, her voice slipping into the vastness of a thickening Tokyo Motor Show crowd. “This is my car.” To Duke, the Figaro was a shell game played by artful illusionist Hayate, a two-doored, convertible trick only a magician could win. For Mirabelle, the Figaro was an automotive prelude to the ever-enticing virtues of adulthood, available in four cleverly significant colors, her favorite among the pick. “Whenever the Pale Aqua Figaro becomes available, please let me know,” Mirabelle said, her Rolex gleaming in gilded glory below fluorescent lights, her elegant thumb skimming across the model car, a springtime Emerald Green. “You’ll be shipping some to England, won’t you?”
Nodding, Hayate placed his business card into her perfect palm. Hayate Wakahisa, A Salesman for Your Future, Nissan Motor Co., Ltd. “You’ll soon be proud owners of a beautiful car for a beautiful couple. Wait for my call!” It wasn’t mentioned that Duke and Mirabelle had only just met, or that they had been shuffled together moments before and one understood nothing of the other beyond first and last names. But these facts played no role in the mind of the salesman or even in the minds of the falsely labeled pair, who took Hayate’s truth about themselves and made it their own. Help her feel paradise or something like it, Duke thought at the time, his hand laced in a careful place inside hers as they walked from one neon-lit car display to the next. They were designing plans for him to visit her flat in Maida Vale, though Mirabelle said she would make the hours-long drive to Cornwall in her new Pale Aqua Figaro. “I’ll come to you,” Duke said with a tenderness too ripe for their hours-long acquaintance. “Trains do run from Lostwithiel to Paddington Underground.” The day Duke spent with Mirabelle Quick at the 1989 Tokyo Motor Show was a mirage drawn by a crafty heart, and in his thump-thumping heart, he knew the deceitful image would end by nightfall, or whenever he thought it should. And so it did. They left the Makuhari Messe through its grand double doors minutes past six o’clock, the sun dipping toward dusk, the moon readying to rise. Duke curled his fingers around her glorious, Rolex-wrapped wrist. “Go to the right,” he instructed. “Go to hell.”
Mirabelle escaped from his grasp. “My watch is a fake,” she spit out. “Keep it in your stupid backpack all the way to Kagoshima and run fast so you’ll be far away before I decide to call the police.” She was calmer than expected, though exactly what happened or what was said has since been weeded over by the forgetful tendrils of time. Now Duke could only recall the feeling of her warm, counterfeit Rolex Sky-Dweller in his hands and nothing more. Funny he should end up in London after all, the premier pick pocketer of Regent’s Park, a place for real, expensive watches and diamond rings and sophisticated gentlemen strollers who kept wallets in back pockets of customtailored suits. Since Japan he had become a thieving ghost in his new city, a pariah in a hustler’s town unwilling to mend his broken ways. Last week was the first time he’d seen it, its autumn-blue reflection soft against townhouse windows like there was no other choice to be made. Three days later he decided to find the light turquoise thing again, if only to see where – and to whom – it might lead. The hands that owned it were clean and distinguished and could’ve been hers as they draped themselves around its decade-old steering wheel. Duke watched the tiny car turn the corner and smiled joylessly as the Pale Aqua Figaro faded away.
Contributors
Jackson Braun Jackson Braun is a freelance writer living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is a graduate of Columbia University and a former staff member of The Berkshire Record and Open Range Magazine. Melissa Marni Melissa Marni is the founder and author of littlewordstudio.com, where she posts works of original short fiction. A native of New York, Melissa now lives in Newport Beach, California. She wrote her first story at the age of nine, (something about evil witches and shoelaces), and has been writing ever since, earning a B.A. from Columbia University and a master’s degree from Northwestern University. Melissa is a lover of red wine, soft cheese, books read by firelight, Pacific Ocean sunsets and her crooked-eared little dog, Austin. John Marvin John Marvin is a teacher who retired and subsequently earned a Ph.D. in English at SUNY Buffalo. He has poems in scores of journals, and literary criticism in Hypermedia Joyce Studies, James Joyce Quarterly, Pennsylvania English, and Worchester Review. His book, “Nietzsche and Transmodernism:
Art and Science Beyond the Modern in Joyce, Stevens, Pynchon, and Kubrick,” awaits a publisher. Megan Merchant Megan Merchant graduated from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas after completing her M.F.A degree in poetry. Her poems and translations have appeared in publications including the Atlanta Review, Kennesaw Review, Margie, International Poetry Review and The Poetry of Yoga. She was the winner of the Las Vegas Poets Prize, judged by Tony Hoagland. She is a the author of two chapbooks; “Translucent, Sealed,” (Dancing Girl Press) and “In the Rooms of a Tiny House” ( ELJ Publications, forthcoming October 2016). Her first full-length collection, “Gravel Ghosts” (Glass Lyre Press) will be making its way into the world summer of 2016. Her first children’s book, “These Words I’ve Shaped For You,” will be also appearing in 2016 through Philomel Books. Her future is bright. She wears shades. Daniel Moore Daniel Moore is a southern poet, who has spent the past 17 years in the Northwest. His work has been widely published in The American Literary Review, Western Humanities Review, Cream City Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, River Styx and others. In December 2003, he was one of eight honorary poets chosen by a panel from the University of Washington and Poets West to read at the annual reading held at the Frye Museum in Seattle. In May 2004, six of his poems were chosen by Rudy Kikel, editor of Bay Windows magazine to appear in a national anthology of poets, entitled, “This New Breed: Gents, Bad Boys, And Barbarians,” published by Windstorm
Creative press. He lives in Washington on Whidbey Island where he is working on his manuscript, “Waxing The Dents.” He currently has work in Ithacalit, and work forthcoming in the Flint Hills Review, Steel Toe Review and Harbinger Asylum. Mark SaFranko Mark SaFranko’s novels include “Hating Olivia” (Harper Perennial), “No Strings” (Thomas & Mercer), “Lounge Lizard” (Murder Slim Press), “God Bless America” (Murder Slim Press) and “Dirty Work” (13E Note Editions). They have collected rave reviews and a cult following in Europe, especially in France, where a fourth novel, “Travaux Forces (or Forced Labor) was recently published. His stories have appeared in over 60 magazines and journals internationally, including the renowned Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. In 2005 he won the Frank O’Connor Award from descant magazine for his short fiction. He was cited in Best American Mystery Stories 2000 and has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize. Mister SaFranko is also a playwright. His plays have been seen on stages in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland as well as many in the United States. As an actor he has appeared in several independent films, including Inner Rage, A Better Place, Shoot George, and The Road From Erebus, which are seen on cable television. His music is available on iTunes. Terry Sanville Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one skittery cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short
stories have been accepted by more than 200 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bitter Oleander, Shenandoah, and Conclave: A Journal of Character. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his story “The Sweeper.” Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
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