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CONNOR MANNION/THE OBSERVER

8

The Comma

December 3, 2015 THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

Keep It Classy

By RACHEL JARVIS

Close your legs Close your mouth Look them in the eye Do not swear Do not shout But let them see you cry.

These are the words a “lady” lives by.

California

By MARGARET FISHER

You gave me California and I felt the ocean rise in my ears.

The tide broke across my drums and all that held me was your arm in the earth.

We sat on the tilt-edge of the world and felt the sky wrap sideways like a blanket.

Let it turn. The stars and things we never know.

This life is too big for me

anyhow.

It hangs down past my knees and my spine cracks when it pulls.

But you gave me California and the stars laughed.

I cried a smile into the cold sand because they could see us.

We could see them.

MARIA KOVOROS/THE OBSERVER

The Artist in my Building

By HOLLY RUSSO

There he goes again. His stark white mane blows back as he glides up 69th street in his typical garb: black velvet pants, black t-shirt, blue double-breasted jacket and a 6’x4’ canvas on his shoulder. He wears it as normally as most would wear a bag or briefcase, and he carries it as easily, too. It’s a wonder that his petite foreign frame hasn’t crumbled under the heavy foreign frame of the canvas.

They’re always painted and always with what appears to be the same tired abstract blob. They’re not particularly appealing and they’re not particularly special—they’re just big. And they get more fresh air than I do. They ride in convertibles to the doorstep, and the doorman mundanely unloads them into the lobby where they stand by the elevator making small talk. Honestly, it’s a bit self-depleting to know that wherever they’re going is definitely more important than wherever I’ve got to go that particular day—hey sure make their way around.

One unsuspecting autumn day I was on my way home, approaching Madison and 63rd, when a giant, bright, all-too-familiar image entered my sight. It was just hanging out, its tall, built frame leaning against a store window, taking it easy, while the artist stepped into the street to hail a cab. As I approached them I said, “Hello! We live in the same building.” Both exuded a mocking confusion, then expressed a sentiment of phony recognition. “Oh, hello,” he said in his accent from wherever he’s from. Maybe Mars. The painting and I glared at each other as I continued on my way, and I silently thought I hope no poor soul is putting that thing in their home. By the time I

reached our building, I realized I should’ve hung around to see what that cab ride looked like.

The artist and his wife tend to walk hand-in-hand around the neighborhood. The wife, of course, resembles the canvas: tall, thin, outdated. Her hair is almost as fried as her brain—an effect, no doubt, of extensive oil-paint exposure. Together they resemble two lost members of the Rolling Stones in both appearance and action, doing what they’re doing because they’ve just been doing it too long to imagine doing anything else—well, that, and the money.

One evening when I was coming back into the building from walking my dog, there he was, accompanied by none other than his standard 6’x4’. I contemplated taking the stairs, but the prospect of carrying my twenty pound dog up three flights wasn’t exactly appealing. The door opened and he routinely packed the 6’x4’ canvas into the 6’x4’ elevator, and then held open the door for me. “Is there enough room?” I mildly asked. He nodded, his silky shag swaying back and forth. My dog and I stepped in. “Nice painting,” I said with a stupid smile. I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t a nice painting.

Maybe there just wasn’t enough room in the elevator for a 6’x4’ canvas, a man, a woman, a dog, and honesty. His hand moved towards the buttons. “Floor?” he asked. “Three, please,” I quickly retorted.

After pressing three his hand slid up, up, up, to press “PH.” Of course they live in the penthouse. Where else could a couple of people with their heads in the clouds feel at home?

JESS LUSZCZYK/THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER December 3, 2015

The Comma

9

Sitting at a Lunchroom Table in our University Cafeteria

By CAROLYN GUERRERO

Bright white fluorescent lights shine overhead, trying to imitate sunshine but lacking the golden hue. Still, they manage to illuminate the cafeteria in a glaring and slightly heated wash of brightness. This is university. A crock-pot of people—some savory and some bland—interacting in ways that sometimes boil over, and sometimes refuse to boil at all.

There’s a couple sitting to the left of me, holding hands across the table. Disgusting. I envy them. The male—attractive, I’ll admit—dunks a fry into a vat of ketchup and sticks it in his mouth, while his blonde-haired companion—equally attractive—watches him chew, meanwhile sipping from a mandarin-colored concoction. They smile at each other, a dinky I-still-have-a-fryin-my-mouth-but-I’m-desperately-trying-to-swallow-it smile, but... I guess it’s cute. Their expressions are warm, comfortable. In love, probably.

Ugh. How lucky to have found your Prince Charming.

The couple is very cute, I decide—even if I am ragingly jealous.

I giggle. I’m definitely a jealous loser, and I’d wager to say I’m a raging lunatic as well. What a fine catch I am. (If I could break the fourth wall and wink at you, I would.)

I’m sitting at a table that is distinctly off-white, with a couple of what seem to be yellow mustard stains now engrained into the plastic tabletop. Four chairs are placed around the square table, only one of them occupied by me. Soon another will be occupied by my Prince Charming. Yes, you read that right. I have found my Prince Charming, even if he doesn’t know he’s been assigned to the role yet. I hope he embraces it, though.

He’s so handsome—he’d look great in a crown.

Speaking of handsome, here he comes. Just look at him, sauntering his way over here. What a beauty. If only I could say that to his face. I imagine it’d go something like this: “I’m terrified of you. I really, truly am. You make me feel strange, little, big things—all of them awakening inside of me in a grand but tumultuous sort of way that will never really get resolved, because you’ll never admit you have any feelings for me and I am too damn scared to say anything to you.”

Instead, I resign myself to these little midday lunchroom meetings, where we talk about our days whilst occasionally looking into each other’s eyes—brief, awkward glances. Maybe one day I’ll hold the glance. I’ll hold the glance and say this all out loud….

Well, that wasn’t so bad.

JULIET ALTMANN/THE OBSERVER

The Newspaper Box

By ISABELLE GARREAUD

My life began on 52nd street. I was one of the luckier ones, born on a busy street in the heart of Manhattan… or so I thought. I remember how optimistic I was, how excited. I suppose we all start out that way. How could we know any better?

The day I arrived was the most exciting day of my life.

You see, I spent weeks, months, god knows how long waiting for my time. I waited ever so patiently to finally be loaded into the truck that would whisk me away to the faraway island of Manhattan. Again, not everyone is so lucky to go to a populated city where its inhabitants would surely want to read the contents inside of them.

I studied the etched outline of Manhattan’s skyline that was proudly displayed on my neighbor’s door. I wondered what it would be like to be stationed underneath a skyscraper, to look up and see it towering over me.

I’m just a small, plastic box painted red. Every time the driver opened up the back door to unload one of us, I would glance out hoping to get a peak of my new home, but every time all I saw were shabby-looking buildings and cracked sidewalks. I was beginning to worry that I had somehow been placed on the wrong truck, when at the next stop I was lifted out and placed on one of those cracked sidewalks. I gave my goodbyes to the rest of the newspaper boxes. My moment had finally come.

Except I wasn’t looking up at a bunch of tall dazzling buildings. In fact, I couldn’t even see the sky, just the underbelly of the scaffolding that stretched down the street. I didn’t let it get me down, though; I figured it would be taken down eventually. Little did I know that “eventually” would be four years later. At the time I presumed that people would be more likely to visit me, since we were both sheltered by the rain and snow.

I was soon branded with the name “AM NEW YORK”

and filled with the black and white pages of that newspaper. It became evident to me that the delivery man only came every morning, right before the suited people made their way to Starbucks or the breakfast carts that were parked in the same spot each day. In the beginning, I didn’t understand why the delivery only happened once a day, because with all the people in this city, surely my newspapers would be gone quick. I was concerned that my customers would be disappointed to find I didn’t have anything to give them when they stopped by later in the day.

I may not have been a prestigious newspaper vending machine, but my door was always accessible, never needing a coin to open. Since NYC was an expensive city, I had to be more appealing than a $2.50 NY Times.

Like with many other things, I would come to realize I was wrong. Nobody tells you what it’s like to be a newspaper box in this city. We are simply built, put on a truck, and then abandoned on the streets.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that no one reads the free papers. I, of course, have never read what I’m displaying, but how bad could it be? And even if it is bad, it’s not like the reader wasted any money. Day by day, I watched as New Yorkers whisked by me, never once stopping, never once giving me a chance. Everyone was always moving, moving against the clock. No one seemed to think they had 20 seconds to spare to grab a newspaper off my shelf.

I became lonely, perched under the scaffolding, unnoticed by the many passersby. Occasionally someone stopped by, and my heart filled with joy until I realized that I was merely a table for their coffee or bag as they organized themselves. Other times I was just an object to lean on.

I’m no longer the cheerful box I once was. I view myself as NYC views me: just a piece of plastic that adds color to the washed out streets. But even my once brilliant red appearance has faded, and I’m scarred with the graffiti of people with sharpies itching to deface something.

I don’t look for people coming my way anymore; my heart no longer longs for them.

Nowadays, my favorite part of the day is when the deliveryman stops by each morning. He is my only companion these days. From the time I hear the screeching of his tires, to the moment I watch him disappear up the street, I have someone paying attention to me. Despite how short our time together is, he is someone I can always count on, even if the feeling isn’t reciprocated.

The scaffolding that I thought would keep me dry is useless. There’s nothing stopping me from getting sprayed with the rainwater that latches onto every particle in the streets as taxis zoom by. Between the rain and NYC’s black snow specialty, I have become dirtier than the homeless people that sleep against me. At least they don’t care how disheveled I look.

Once you get dropped off at some city curb, you’re on your own. No one comes to wash the dirt off of you.

No one comes to fix your rusted screws, your broken handle, or your cracked screen. As long as the deliveryman can continue his job of replacing the stack inside you, no one cares how withered away you’ve become.

Over the years you watch your city change: new stores replace old ones, billboards advertise the latest fad, streets are fixed, scaffoldings are put up and taken down. Everything changes while you stay the same.

Maybe that’s why I’m kept around. Everything else is temporary, so they need me to stay fixed in NYC’s background. I’m the only stable thing this city has left.

ANGELA LUIS/THE OBSERVER

12

The Comma

December 3, 2015 THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

A Christmas Memory

By HUNTER LANG

It’s my eleventh Christmas. Christmas Eve, actually, and we are at a community theater production of “A Christmas Carol,” in a musty barn that’s been repurposed as a theater. I’m pouty, I am cold, encased in the cheap red velvet dress Mom made me wear. It’s from last year, and it’s too tight, rubbing my neck and my armpits raw. Intermission is almost over, and I announce I have to pee. Mom grumbles. I don’t get along too well with her anymore. But Dad says he’ll take me.

neck, which has a large gash through it. His glassy eyes stare, and I stare back, still drowning. His face is pale white, covered with the fake dirt from the play. The tweed cap still sits on his head, secured with bobby pins.

The restrooms are in their own little concrete building, separate from the barn. When Dad and I step outside, our breath smokes and the ground crunches under our feet. The farm is in the middle of a forest, and almost every tree and bush in sight has been strung with glittering lights. An enormous Christmas tree dominates the yard, dazzling and bright, with a golden star on the top. It’s beautiful. I want to hold Dad’s hand, but I stopped doing that years ago, around the same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus. We trudge along in silence for a little while and then we separate, him to the men’s room, me to the women’s room.

The silence buzzes in my ears, and I understand what I must do. I kneel down over Tiny Tim, my mary-janes slipping, I grab his pants and yank them up over his stiff legs, refastening them around his waist. Much better. I bunch my dress up in my hands, and wipe the blood off of his face.

The velvet drinks it up. He looks almost normal, but he needs his crutch. I look around for it, but it is nowhere to be seen.

It’s a small bathroom, lit with buzzing fluorescent lights. Grimy bowls of potpourri sit on the window sill. I’m the only one in there, everyone else is back in their seats. There are only two stalls, and I head for the handicapped one. I’m not handicapped, I just like the bigger one. I try the door, but it is locked. So I go to the other stall, and immediately recoil, my insides churning. There is a used tampon stuck to the seat. My bowels shift and my vision is momentarily fuzzy, I know about periods and I know mine will come soon, but for now I want nothing to do with it. I return to the handicapped stall and knock on the door. No one answers. After a moment’s consideration, I get down and crawl underneath the stall door.

I look up. Freeze. My dress tightens, I can’t breathe. My vision is blurry, I may be underwater.

Tiny Tim is in the stall. I know immediately it’s him, despite the pool of blood jellying beneath him, and the strange way his head hangs off his

My mind feels cloudy, and I gasp for breath. My throat aches, my lungs burn. I suddenly notice with embarrassment that his pants and underwear are around his ankles.

The crutch is gone, and I’m finally scared. My frozen heart thaws and pounds. I throw up a little, but swallow it. Then, I slither back out underneath the door, I don’t know why I don’t just open it. I sprint outside, the cold wind smacking my face, the beautiful lights blurring. The seams under my arms burst apart. Dad is grinning at me, saying “there you are!”

But his face falls when he sees mine. And then I’m in his arms, and I sob without actually crying. He asks me what happened, his voice urgent, but I can only gasp, my lungs blazing. I can’t bring myself to tell him, to say the words out loud.

The show ends abruptly. A crowd gathers outside, And police cars arrive, with an ambulance. The flashing red and blue lights make the Christmas tree look dull, dark. They ask me a million questions. They ask me if I touched anything in the stall, and I say no. I don’t know why I lie. I just don’t want them to know. Mom holds me close when the body bag is wheeled out, impossibly small. I realize I don’t know his real name. To me, he’s only Tiny Tim. That night, I’m visited by ghosts.

ZANA NAJJAR/THE OBSERVER

The Beeping Traveler

By DAVID MILO

“Take everything off and remove all your electronics from their bags and cases” are the words that are constantly repeated by several annoyed metal detector and x-ray machine operators.

Their words fall upon deaf ears, though, as the five a.m. business travelers, the families going on vacations with small children, and the immigrants all converge with one goal: find a good line, get through security and to the gate as fast as possible. As easy as it sounds, security almost never works out that way.

A dozen x-ray machines, each with heaps of luggage to process per minute, form the almost impenetrable wall that is globally known as airport security. Carts of plastic bins are rolled over as passengers purge their clothing of anything that can beep, buzz, or ring as they pass through the metal detectors. But a very special select few are what I like to call “travel inept.”

In disregard of all the instructions that had been pounded upon their ears by the large southern women who watches the line while sipping her coffee, these inept people try and walk through metal detectors with every ounce of metal they own on their person, sending the machine into overload. The whole line that flows to this scanning station now must be halted as the person must walk back through the machine and attempt to unload his or her hidden stash of metal, starting a riotous chain of events.

After the second or third attempt for the person to pass through security, people in line behind them begin to get rowdy. Large exhales can be heard as some try to express their feelings about the situation subtly, while others choose to verbally abuse the person stalling the line. Many businessmen attempt to transfer to a different line, but only succeed in traveling a few steps before they are confronted with the now standing African woman who is furious that she had to relinquish her ass from the padded swivel chair.

Holding the walkie talkie in one hand while palming her holstered nightstick in the other for intimidation, she silently

corrals the businessmen back into line as they scowl and snicker at her about how poorly airports are run. This only worsens the attitudes of everyone in the line, as they view fellow passengers coolly strolling through security in other lines. People try to jump past the person still trying to pass through security only to be stopped like the rest of their fellow trapped travelers.

Five minutes have gone by, precious time in the world of travel.

Kids start getting jumpy and mothers, who are already stressed to the max, give them whatever they want so they’ll shut up. The Game Boys are turned on and their repetitious sound of electronically created beats only adds to the discomfort of waiting in a stationary line. Blackberry keys are angrily punched as workers relay the situation to their colleagues who have already breezed through security and are peacefully resting at the gate as they await the boarding call. Even an old European couple starts trying to talk the TSA agents about how they are going to miss their flight that is two hours away in a foreign language, only to be met with a confused stare.

The search wands are taken out as agents begin to probe for any metal that can possibly cause the machine to go off. The belt dings and is removed, but there is still something beeping in the traveler’s pants. Finally, the passenger and all of his or her belongings are picked up by officers who have been called to the area due to the chance of a security threat. Everyone who was in this line starts to clap, only adding to the embarrassment of the lone traveler.

From an onlooker’s perspective, this is a hysterical sight at six in the morning. A fellow traveler being forced to strip off almost all their clothes in public, and causing an angry mob of travelers who are being held back by security, only to culminate in their public humiliation. It doesn’t get much better than that. Too bad this whole situation is going to replay again thirty seconds later.

ANGELA LUIS/THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER December 3, 2015

The Comma

13

Espresso

By BENJAMIN STRATE

My skin crawls as the sun sets And the wind gently caresses my shirt Like a late lover.

You smile at me And I can’t help but wonder Is there something on my face?

What are you staring at?

Oh, what I would give to read your mind Or of course you could just tell me…

That would be super nice.

But alas, we stare in silence For a moment And allow the gears of our infernal machine to grind Where not a sound escapes.

You are beautiful.

I would tell you this, but You are gone.

Passed on.

Was it seconds, minutes, hours?

Perhaps we were destined to be together, Yet we didn’t act But if destiny exists Can free-will as well?

If not then Maybe If one of us chose We could have been together Forever But who would want that?

MICHELLE QUINN/THE OBSERVER

Santa Monica

By DYLAN KING

“When we get there, everything will be okay.”

Minnie looked at her little sister on the seat next to her. BooBoo was sitting tall in her seat, looking out the window at the open land. It seemed to drag on. The mountains off in the distance blocked the horizon, but Minnie knew that the whole world was beyond them.

two weeks, since her father stopped letting them leave the house. He told the school that he was switching the girls into an all-girls Catholic school. Minnie knew it was a lie so that nobody would come looking for them.

That was when she realized her father had become really dangerous. Minnie stared out the window for only a few moments before her eyelids got heavy and she was asleep.

and his mouth was fixed in a permanent frown. Minnie pulled out the only money she had: a twenty dollar bill and three singles.

The bus cost them more than half of what they found around the house, but Minnie didn’t see any other way of getting to the coast. She would need to make it last as long as possible. She handed the man the three singles.

“Are we almost there?” BooBoo asked.

“Minnie, wake up,” whispered BooBoo.

“Where are we?” Minnie asked the old man.

“I’m not sure, Boo. But it’ll be worth the wait.

I promise.”

Minnie’s eyes jolted open. She felt a rush of panic when she realized the bus was stopped.

BooBoo cuddled against her sister and leaned her head on Minnie’s shoulder. Minnie wrapped her arms around the smaller girl.

BooBoo has the smallest hands, like the mother she never met.

“Minnie, what’s going on?”

The old man took a long look at this young girl, alone in the desert. “Nowhere,” he finally answered.

When they left, BooBoo was afraid to get on the bus. It was loud and long and Minnie told BooBoo that they needed to get away quickly and quietly, but this bus didn’t seem quick or quiet. But when the time came, Minnie was able to drag her sister to the back seat, where no one would bother them.

The entire ride BooBoo had been peeking around the seat to check the road ahead, but Minnie was more concerned about what was behind them. She knew their father was going to come looking for them. Minnie couldn’t blame him for what he’d become.

She knew how sad he was when their mother died. She knew it was just the liquor. But she had to get her little sister away from him.

BooBoo wasn’t strong like Minnie.

After only a few minutes, BooBoo was asleep. Minnie decided she would sleep too, hoping they would be there when she woke up. She hadn’t gotten much sleep in the past

“I don’t know, Boo. Wait here.”

Most of the seats on the bus were empty.

Minnie climbed onto the seat next to theirs to look out the window. They were at a rest stop in the middle of a desert that neither of the girls could possibly know the location of.

“It’s okay, Boo. We’re probably only stopped for a few minutes. Are you hungry?”

BooBoo shook her head. “No.” “I’ll get you something anyway. You have to eat something. I’ll be right back.”

Minnie climbed out of the bus and onto the dirt road where the bus was parked. The driver was standing at the door and helped her down.

“We leave in four minutes, girl,” he told her.

Minnie shook her head and walked into the store. She picked some chips and a few water bottles out and brought them to the counter.

An old man stood at the register. He looked awful; the skin around his eyes was purple

“I’m headed somewhere.”

“Where is that?”

“Los Angeles.”

The old man put the water and chips in a bag and handed it over to Minnie. She didn’t leave, though.

“What do you want?” The old man asked.

“Why are you unhappy?”

“That’s not your business, girl. Get lost.”

“Is everyone unhappy? Everywhere?”

“Yes.” “But not in Los Angeles. Me and my sister are going to be happy there.”

“Everyone is sad there too.”

“You’re a liar, sir.”

“You don’t know me, girl.”

“Do you think people are happy in New York? Or Mexico?”

“No. People feel alone in New York and people are poor in Mexico. They’re unhappy everywhere.”

“You’re a liar.” Minnie saw the driver climb back onto the bus. “I have to go.”

The old man didn’t say a word. Minnie climbed back onto the bus to find her sister asleep again. This time, when Minnie fell asleep, she woke up in California.

Minnie held BooBoo’s hand as they walked through the streets of Los Angeles. The city was big and frightening at every turn. Minnie decided she needed to stay strong for her sister. Back home, Minnie was known for not taking crap from anyone. Her father always said that having an attitude is like having a gun in the City of God—everyone’s got one.

Minnie never understood that until now.

The girls walked for about an hour. It was warm wandering the streets. Some young lady pointed them to the beach. When they got there, the sun was down. Minnie took BooBoo to the end of the pier. They passed by hundreds of people playing games and riding rides; people laughing, some others singing.

The girls hadn’t said more than two words to each other since they got off the bus. Minnie leaned over the railing to stare down into the black water of the Pacific Ocean.

“We’re here, Boo. We can be happy now.”

Minnie wrapped her arms around her little sister and pulled her in close. Minnie knew her words were a lie as they left her tongue.

The old man was right. Their location may have changed, but they were still the same.

PAYTON VINCELETTE/THE OBSERVER

KAY D’ANGELO/THE OBSERVER