thing inexplicable happens. This was neither a joke nor a silent movie. I had gone deaf overnight. —Abiola Haroun, who is deaf, is an aspiring artist and poet living in Baltimore with her son, Matthew.
M y he a d f e l t stuffed with packing peanuts. My stomach still bubbled from large amounts of German “liquid bread” and the foreign water I’d drank at breakfast. I was a pathetic version of a person. After dragging my body from the youth hostel, I sat on a cold seat in a train on the U-Bahn, Munich’s subway system, blankly gazing over the adverts and transport maps covering its walls. Marienplatz station had the most colored circles around it—for line changes—so I figured that would be the best place to start some (very slow) exploring. I plodded up the stairs leading to the street, and just as my foot hit the Bavarian cobblestone, the big and little hands hit twelve noon, stirring a wave of bells into motion. Perhaps because I was in a new place, or perhaps because I was only somewhat coherent, or perhaps because of the odd foreign-art-house feel of it, but the sound of the bells struck me and I started hurriedly walking, then outright tearing, through the maze of buildings, chasing the frantic clanging that bounced indeterminately off the cool, hard surfaces of the walls. I turned pirouettes, disorienting myself further, trying to figure out where, exactly, the bells were. After what seemed like hours of searching, I turned a corner and looked up—up to the top of a monumental Gothic church, where a glockenspiel spun in the center spire. The church profile cut a stark outline against a cloudless, impossibly blue sky; stone dragons frozen in mid-crawl wrapped around the lower half of its facade. The plaza beneath teemed with Germans and tourists, sitting at wooden tables, drinking from steins and dipping oversized pretzels into spicy mustards, or standing in groups, gawking at the wooden figures dancing above us. The crowd’s murmur faded into nothing, their bodies dissolved, until all that remained was this vast granite monolith and minuscule me. It wasn’t Gatorade and aspirin, but it was the best cure for a hangover I’ve found. —Nik Korpon sometimes bartends in Hampden and in the fall is moving to the UK to write.
“ T h o s e a re a w e s ome shoes!” remarked a teenager as I strolled along the street in Fenwick Island, Delaware. The remark took me aback; compliments over men’s shoes are rare occurrences. There was a long pause before a gracious “thank you” emerged from my lips.
I’d thought of footwear more in terms of “comfortable,” “sturdy,” and “sensible,” rather than awe-inspiring. I reserved “awe” for the vastness and power of the oceans or the grandeur of the mountains. I couldn’t imagine footwear rising to this level. I learned later that my shoes were the hot Italian brand of the summer season. The teenager’s usage was correct according to the authoritative Oxford English Dictionary. The dictionary’s fourth definition describes its trivial usage as follows: An enthusiastic term of commendation: marvelous, great, stunning, mind-boggling (slang). So, despite being both “trivial” and “slang,” the term is popular enough to be included in the dictionary, and at least it wasn’t labeled an “Americanism.” I rather enjoyed wearing my comfortable, awesome shoes over the rest of that summer. But by summer’s end, the uppers had started to fray and the soles’ treads had smoothed. The following season the shoes were relegated to painting duty. The year after that, they were tossed into the trash, and I realized that “awesome” experiences are always transitory. Enjoy them—these moments will not last. —Ted Kruse is a librarian at the University of Baltimore. He lives in Rodgers Forge with his wife, Joyce, and their two dogs.
On ce, when my frien d
was in a bar in Iowa City, the bartender turned on all the lights, and then nervously wiped down the counter with a rag. The bar patrons did a double take: the glaring silence of the lights is the universal symbol of “last call.” Yet, it was early evening, so what in the name of good Guinness was the bartender doing? The bartender turned up the volume of the television: a tornado warning was in effect. He volunteered the bar’s basement to the customers, in case sitting down there would make them feel safer. Everyone declined. A handful of people walked out to the sidewalk and peered intently at the sky. My friend remained in the bar, but watched the people on the sidewalk through the window. Suddenly they ran back in, buzzing with news. Had they seen a tornado? No. But they had seen streaks of glitter on the horizon, violent circles of air ascending. Everyone ran down into the basement. It was dark, but there were cases of bottled beer, and the bartender invited anyone who was so inclined to have a drink on the house. They drank and sat on the floor like children, their knees pulled to their chests. Conversational echoes bounced back and forth in the dark, disembodied opinions as to where the tornado would touch down. The patrons huddled together until the tornado sirens stopped. Then they went upstairs, looked out the window, and traipsed through the front door and
onto the sidewalk. Nothing had changed. Then their cell phones began to sing, vibrate, holler, and ring. The tornado had whirled down on the other side of town, ripping off roofs and rearranging front yards. There was property damage, a few injuries, and, maybe, a woman was dead. A tornado, my friend said, is different than a hurricane or a bullet. A tornado is like a rubber bouncy ball, moving erratically, uncontrollably, toward an unknown destination. A child chases the ball, trying to grab it, while the adult watches, amused. The adult watches, like they watch the evening news, nervously laughing about where and how the world will bounce next. —Dan Kennedy teaches high school English at the Augusta Fells Savage Institute of Visual Arts.
On a F r iday in mid-October, I escape my daily life. I’m wearing a bikini underneath my softest hoodie and the perfect pair of worn-in jeans. I am accompanied by my best buddy, Andy, who refused to let me run away by myself, and I reluctantly enjoy his quiet company. We leave early, drive through the sunrise, and eat pancakes on the boardwalk. We spend a warmish day on the beach. He sleeps; I write. It isn’t enough to simply take flight; I must feel liberated as well. The writing helps. So does the sun. I buy a yellow disposable camera. A little boy running into and out of the waves is caught forever on film; a couple holding hands, squinting at seashells, talking towards the breeze; a name scribbled in the sand that I just swatted away. Just Andy and I now on the beach. Simple sunlight. I’m not ready to leave; I want to see the sun set over the water. Andy laughs. “You won’t get that today.” “Sure I will.” Stubborn as always, “We’ll just wait for it.” “Wait all you like. The sun doesn’t set over the Atlantic here.” And it dawns on me. I cry then. The world is so unfair as to ruin the day I took off from reality. Shenanigans, the boardwalk dive bar, soothes with fish and chips and vinegar. The salt helps. So does a beer; it tastes a bit briny by the ocean, as if everything changes at the beach in the off-season. Windows down, we start for home, back to Baltimore, over the bay. And there goes the sun, just as we drive over the bridge, setting over the water. Andy takes a picture while I drive, light glinting off the clouds, sun winking through my windshield, gulls calling goodbye. —Kristen Kearby survives almost exclusively on coffee, calls the beach home, and creates families among friends.
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