A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN SLC STRAIGHT BOY

A day in the life of an slc Straight boy

Zoe Stanton-Savitz

He wakes in a bare room; unfurnished, the walls a pristine white, no decorations save the Juice Wrld poster in the corner concealing a st-shaped hole. His bed is unburdened by comfort, devoid except for a set of Target-bought cotton sheets — a er all, real men sleep without a blanket. He slips into the same joggers and quarter-zip sweatshirt he’s worn since laundry day, last ursday, and his signature slides. en, he runs his hands through his shaggy hair for the perfect bed-head chic look to embark on the day ahead. Before leaving his Slonim Woods house, he dons a Carhartt beanie and carelessly places a mask over just his mouth, too preoccupied by his painfully interesting thoughts to bother li ing it over his nose. Begrudgingly, he mumbles an unenthused “hey” to his roommates playing X-Box in the living room. ey respond with a nod and an apathetic grunt as he begins his trudge to e Barbara Walters Campus Center for a bagel and a carton of milk, starting his day with a balanced breakfast in preparation of the ve o’clock grind with his boys. On his way, he encounters a girl with whom he’s been casually irting, almost dating, though her blue hair is somewhat of a turn-o . He prefers to keep his options open.

107

“Whatcha listening to?” she asks cheerfully.

He takes out an airpod and releases an exasperated sigh as he responds.

“ ey’re pretty underground,” he starts. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.” “Try me.”

“Radiohead?”

She rolls her eyes.

e day progresses. In his rst class — Aesthetics and History of Postmodern Painting — he is asked his pronouns.

“I’m a boy. Obviously,” he responds with an eye roll. e discussion centers around Jackson Pollock and he makes the assessment that every splatter was absolutely intentional despite the chaotic nature of the work. An argument ensues between him and another student in the class but defensive, he insists he was just stating an opinion.

“God, no need to get so heated,” he says, u ng his hair nervously.

He promptly turns his camera o and checks his Tinder — his bio says “Straight, 6 . 1, just a simple man from a concrete jungle looking for my Tinderella. Don’t waste my time,” his photos include a shirtless pic from the neck down, aunting his exed abs and

108

a portrait of him smiling broadly as he displays a huge carp. He notices a new match and sends a sel e of only his jawline and an audio message of his sexy voice — pitched slightly lower and a little breathy — saying “‘sup?”

A er class nally ends, he decides he should blow o some steam and shoot a few hoops at the gym. On approach, however, he is thrown amiss by an Interpretive Movement course occurring on the basketball court. Aghast and a bit disturbed, he watches as students, eyes closed and arms ailing, dance freely, frolic, twirl and roll thoughtlessly across his oor. He lets out a snort but leaves them alone.

His academic day ends with a Film History conference in which he talks about the legendary and original cinematography of 1917. He con dently propounds that metaphor is a gimmick and he appreciates the simplicity of plot.

“It was lmed all in one shot, you know,” he informs his desperately prostrated professor. e conversation transforms into his passionate assertion that screenwriters have become obsolete and every movie should be devised by the actors and director.

“Quentin Tarantino is my muse,” he declares before leaving the conference. “Don’t you think Pulp

109

Fiction is just the greatest lm ever made?” e professor has stopped listening.

When he returns to his dorm, three full meals in tow, he greets his roommates once again, nodding and repeating the standard grunted “hey.” Following their evening grind, the boys commence a strip Super Smash Bros. tournament inciting a heated debate a er he chooses the Princess Peach avatar.

“Why are you laughing at me, bro,” he starts. “Peach is a straight-up badass.” “Okay, no,” a roommate argues as he aggressively smashes buttons on his controller. “She’s always being kidnapped. She has to be saved all the damn time.”

“Yeah, she’s a damsel in distress or some shit,” another pipes up.

“ at’s such an archaic term, though,” he contends. “It’s just used to perpetuate di erential treatment of genders in media.”

“Damn, you make a good point,” the rst agrees.

“Yeah,” he continues. “ e idea that women are weak is just a regressive myth patronizing women and girls and enforcing patriarchal ideals.”

“And that’s on gender disparity,” another roommate remarks, eating a bowl of fruit loops shirtless in the kitchen.

110

Before bed, he hastily locks the bathroom door and uncovers a black tote bag from a cabinet under the sink. He unzips it slowly and retrieves his Khiel’s facial cleanser, Mario Bedascu toner and Neutrogena Hydro-Boosting moisturizer. As he applies his skin care products, purifying, exfoliating and revitalizing, an angry knock echoes through the bathroom. “Dude,” a mu ed voice says from behind the door. “I gotta pee.”

“One second,” he calls back.

“What are you even doing?”

Before climbing into bed in his empty cinder-block dorm and preparing for the morning to come, he opens the door to the bathroom revealing a steamed up mirror and a clean face. “Self-care, bro.”

111

contributors

audrey deng is a New York-based writer. Kindly follow her on Twitter @6iji4d3.

becca wilson is a rst-year studying visual arts. She is from Oakland, and enjoys avocado toast, the beach, and California stereotypes.

benjamin willen is a senior from the North Shore of Massachusetts. He knows a truly obscene amount of information about paratactic sentences. He is not sure where that knowledge will get him in his life a er graduation.

cassandra traina is nishing her nal year at Sarah Lawrence College where she studied creative writing and french. Her work focuses on gender and femininity, sexuality, family, our relationships with memory, and the simultaneous beauty and pain of everyday life. e following pieces are from an ongoing poetic diary created during this pandemic entitled Plague Poems.

celia meade is currently an MFA writing student at Sarah Lawrence College in New York, under the guidance of the amazing Marie Howe, Afaa Michael Weaver, Jo Ann Beard, and others. She holds an MFA

112

in painting, has shown internationally and lives in Salt Spring Island, Canada. Her writing has appeared or is upcoming in more than a dozen publications including Brush re, Plainsongs, e Louisville Review, and Perceptions Magazine.

frances kenney is a rst-year at Sarah Lawrence College, where she is studying literature and the social sciences. Her writing and photography have appeared in Drawn Poorly and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine among others, and she is on the editorial sta of Sarah Lawrence’s very own Love & Squalor. Kenney would like to assure the readers of e Croaker that no animals were harmed in the making of this piece, but the subject may have been vaguely irritated if he wasn’t so deeply asleep. For this reason, Kenney extends special thanks to her dog, Mouse, for having such a cute, squishy little face that he so generously lets his humans mess with.

hiral tanna is a rst year student of MS in Human Genetics at Sarah Lawrence college. She is from India and loves to travel and exploring places. Beside genetics and travel, she is a passionate gardener and likes to spend time with her family and plants. She is excited to start her journey as a genetic counselor post her graduation.

Ivy Weston is a sophomore studying psychology

113

and creative writing at Oberlin College. Her passions include tiny notebooks, ghosts, and getting all the white stu o of an orange before she eats it.

Kat lo Faro is a rst-year focusing on public policy. She enjoys nding humor in the little things, as her discipline is o en depressing and the world is in shambles. She hopes this submission will not come back to bite her when she searches for a job in law or government.

rachel saruski is a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence studying theatre and literature, originally from Miami Beach, FL. She likes to think she is funny most of the time, and thanks e Croaker for con rming that that belief is true at least some of the time.

rebecca willson is a rst-year at Sarah Lawrence studying visual arts. She is from Oakland California, and enjoys reading, the woods, and Cage the Elephant.

sana nasib is a freshman at Sarah Lawrence, interested in creative writing and sociology. She has many passions including consumption of hot sauce, Bu y the Vampire Slayer and sad songs.

sara yossef is a rst year student at Sarah Lawrence College. Her main interests are politics, wiring, and

114

the visual arts, but frogs are pretty high on the list as well.

Several Limes is a band of sentient limes. A er making it big in New York City, they toured the entire country, made their Hollywood debut, had a late-night talk show, and their own brand of cereal. A er this steady rise to fame, they became known as America’s sweethearts. However, sweet soon became sour, and a er rumors of embezzlement and fraud, several scandals involving a rival band of lemons, and general creative fatigue, they disbanded. For their nal act together, they submitted their funniest work to e Croaker, with brand new art pieces to show. Hopefully their legacy lives on in our hearts, that we may always carry the spirit, mirth and humor that comes with being several sentient limes.

s. w. cambell was born in Eastern Oregon. He currently resides in Portland where he works as an economist and lives with a house plant named Morton. He has had numerous short stories published in various literary reviews in three countries. If you’d like to read more of his writing, check out his website: www.shawnwcampbell.com.

tyler Fischer is a sophomore writer who writes stu . He has many hobbies such as writing.

115

staff

Co-Chairs

Emily neves began her Croaker journey as layout editor from Long Island. A erwards, she was ritually sacri ced to the One True Croak, and a er an excruciating trial by re, she was imbued with the spirit of the Funny Mantm and became a co-chair. Now she is ready to pass the frog torch (or frorch, if you will) to the next generation. And for the very last time, she hopes you enjoy reading the magazine. Madeleine Albanese is a senior who can be sequestered in the library’s basement. If you o er her cheese- avored snacks, you may be able to catch a glimpse of her. She has had a great time croaking for the past four years and knows the magazine is in good hands.

FICTION EDITORS

Reve Rogers- Bottino is a Senior at SLC who focuses in Anthropology and Writing. She would like to thank her parents for giving her such a wacky sense of humor. Reve hopes that everyone has a good laugh from reading the Croaker because laughter is such an important thing in life. Lily Kahan is a junior who loves writing and music.

116

A music third, she truly believes Freddie Mercury is King and wishes she could live in a Brontë novel NONFICTION EDITORS

Harry Saroff would like to thank the readers of e Croaker for their great taste, and inform them that he is currently trapped at Croaker Headquarters with no way out. Harry is only able to communicate via this bio, and would like to acknowledge that his supply of food and water has been completely exhausted; he has been living o the abundance of ies and printing paper alone. Harry would lastly like to beg anybody who sees this to send help before it is too late. Kat McQuade is from Mukilteo, WA, a tiny nowhere town that even most people from Seattle don’t know exists. She was born to parents from Indiana and Chicago, so she sounds like she’s from the Southside and looks like she was born in a corn eld, despite having read Marx and Emma Goldman. In her free time, she enjoys watching terrible television and writing several novels that have yet to be nished. As a graduating senior, she is moving to Brooklyn like any other twenty-something writer stereotype to make it in the Big City. Kat has a strong passion for children’s literature and once worked at the American Girl Store. She hopes to one day write a new historical character for American Girl that is involved with the

117

socialist/workers’ rights movements in the early twentieth century so she may radicalize a new generation of nine-year-old girls. And yes, Kat does love cats. POETRY EDITORS

Shannon Mullen is a senior graduating in May and is currently living in New Hampshire. When not being a poetry editor for e Croaker, Shannon enjoys working at the liquor store and watching the Disney Channel original movie Avalon High. Shannon is so happy to be a part of e Croaker and she hopes you enjoy this year’s magazine! Sofia Aguilar is a Latina writer, editor, and senior at Sarah Lawrence College and originally from Los Angeles. Most recently, her work has appeared in Unpublished Magazine, Melanin. Magazine, and e Westchester Review, among other publications. In her free time, she loves crocheting, reading, and spending too much time on Twitter.

ART EDITOR

Sophia Baldassari is a rst-year from Hoboken, NJ. Work has been produced/read at George Street Playhouse, Luna Stage, Haddon eld Plays and Players, and Manhattan Repertory eatre. Publications with e Blue Marble Review, Poetry Juicebox, Bridgeink, Teennews.net, Le Journal Français, and Teenink (Top

118

Poet of the Month, Sta Pick).

COPY EDITOR

Ash Freeman is a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence College. ey are a multi-genre writer as well as the copy editor for e Croaker, editor in chief for Love and Squalor, and a poetry editor for Sarah Lawrence Review. ey spend their days staring at snails.

LAYOUT EDITORS

jamie chen is a junior at Sarah Lawrence College and a self-proclaimed expert on romcoms (the cheesier the better). Her special talents include saying the alphabet backwards and listening to audiobooks on 2.5x speed. When she grows up, she hopes to be cool.

zoe stanton-savitz is a sophomore studying literature, creative writing, and theatre. Along with being the layout editor for e Croaker, they also work on the SLC Review and e Phoenix. ey are a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, and Scorpio rising. eir prized possession is a frog ring named Gerald.

119