Lexicon
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Xavier High School Spring 2010
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editorial board: Chris Chavez ‘11 Chris Cimperman ‘10 Chris Fenimore ‘10 Keven Perez ‘12 Leland Jobson ‘10 Stephen Long ‘10 Edwin Mercado ‘10 Efrain Neri ‘10 Peter Orphanides ‘10 Adam Romero ‘10 Carlo Santiago ‘10 Maurice Sheehy ‘10 James Tarrant ‘10
Moderator:
Mr. Matthew Thomas 1
CONTENTS
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Ramon Rodriguez
3
“Throw it Up”
Stephen Long
6
“Our Father”
Roderick Sang
11
“Fists”
Khoreece Mendoza
14
“The Fame”
Carlo Santiago
21
“Resentment”
Daniel Gomes
24
“Cityscapes”
James Tarrant
34
“Devil’s Work”
Peter Orphanides
39
“My Sweet Grandmother”
Edwin Mercado
41
“Hope”
Chris Fenimore
46
“Sailing Around the Room”
Cover design by Leland Jobson
2
throw it up Ramon Rodriguez
Wait for the sun to go down; you aren’t good enough to try it dur-
ing the daytime yet. The pigs will you see and that’s not the kind of attention you’re looking for. Remember one thing, no matter what: you’re a nobody. Don’t take it negatively, though; you’re my nephew and I’m just trying to help you. If you remember you’re a nobody, you’ll never stop trying to be a somebody. When cats forget that is when they get caught slipping. But I also mean it literally. You are “nobody,” as in you no longer have a body; you are just a word. That word you crudely scribble on the wall in the 14th street train station is what you are. Your parents would be pissed to hear that I’m teaching you all this stuff. Let’s just keep this between the two of us. Your Mom saw me get locked up for this. Hell, she saw a cop beat me half to death when we were seventeen. After the cop finished she rode in the ambulance as they took me to the hospital to get my collapsed lung fixed. She’s the only one who came to visit me for the six years I was put away for. So make sure she doesn’t find out. I’m teaching you this because you’re going to write whether I help you or not. I’d rather you learn from a pro like me than some idiot who thinks he knows what he’s talking about. I’m actually a good guy for doing this. I’m sacrificing my time to show you the ropes. If you do get caught or arrested, though, it’s not my fault. I won’t feel guilty and you’d better not blame me. If something does go down and the pigs get their hands on you, leave me out of it. I’ve broken your Mom’s heart too many times in the past. Make sure you always respect the writers. At present you’re a toy. You have no style, you have no can control, and you have no cred. What you’re throwing up now mocks what the real guys are 3
throwing up. Don’t look at me that way; you know I’m just trying to help you. That means I have to tell it the way it is. You want to be Cope and T-kid? You want to get up like Obey and TAKI? Then that means you listen to my advice, because that’s how you get to their level. That’s how you get to my level. Never put that marker down. I don’t care where you are. If you’re in school, throw it up. The faculty and the students will know your name. If you’re at a pizza place, throw it up. Every single Tom, Dick and Jane that eats a slice there will know your name. If you’re at a hospital, throw it up. The doctors, nurses, sick and injured will know your name. I don’t care if you’re in church, throw it up. Even J.C. and his Dad will know your name. That’s what it’s all about. If people know your name then people hear your message. Whether they understand what that message is doesn’t matter. You have to be able to do everything, all types and all styles. Pieces, Blockbusters, Throw-Ups, Fill-Ins, Wild style, Burners: they better be sick or they won’t give a shit. If every thing you put up isn’t nice, they’ll go over it. Capping someone is the highest form of disrespect there is. Steal his girl, date his mom, steal his car, but never go over somebody. If you do, know that they’ll be coming for you. If anyone ever goes over me, I’m going over him for life. You’d never do that to me, though; you’re not that stupid. Are you? For your sake, I hope you’re not. Watch out for the boys in blue. They’ll go to any lengths to catch us. The day they stop calling us vandals is the day I’ll stop calling them pigs. A lot of the time they don’t even catch us themselves; those bastards have signs up offering rewards for snitching. They turn writers into rats in exchange for reduced sentences. It sickens me to think about it. We get no respect for one of the oldest art forms in history. Cavemen were doing it on walls before people could even speak. Don’t even get me started on WWII and Kilroy. I don’t see them buffing the ceiling of Sistine Chapel like they did to our trains in the late seventies. I still get those old urges whenever I see those squeaky clean express trains pull into the platform. Sometimes I really miss the Golden Age. But a toy like you wouldn’t know anything about that. Don’t feel too bad; we all started as toys. You have to start 4
somewhere. Your generation wants everything fast, like your emails, text messages, and microwave dinners. In my day people knew some things required patience. All the legends were willing to work hard for it. I was willing to work hard for it, and that’s why I’m as sick as I am today. You, on the other hand, don’t look like you have what it takes. Think you can prove me wrong? I doubt it, but we’ll see. Even rats occasionally find the cheese at the end of the maze. No matter how hard you work, you’ll never be like the guys in my day. People were built different back then. You don’t see guys riding the tops of speeding trains anymore. You don’t see guys bombing the insides of train cars top to bottom anymore. The pigs have you all scared, whether you admit it or not. The guys from back in the day may be teaching you, but you’ll never measure up. Don’t take it badly; you’re my nephew and I’m just trying to help you. You have to remember that the city is bigger than just Manhattan. Even though the other four don’t even matter, you have to get up there too. The more places you put your name, the more people see it. That’s how you become All-City. The guys out in Brooklyn are a tough crowd. They catch you out there alone bombing their neighborhoods and they’ll make sure you forget your name. Hell, you’d be lucky if you even make it back. The Bronx is where it all began. That’s the Hall of Fame. The cats out in Queens are cool if you make the right friends. Staten Island’s soft; I wouldn’t bother making the trip out because it’s way too easy. You’d probably like that, though, with that toy bullshit you’re putting up right now. Lucky for you the fairy’s free. Don’t get bent out of shape; take a joke. There might come a time where you don’t suck as bad as you do now. If you actually practice, learn your stuff, learn the city, and hit the right spot, you’ll make something of yourself. There may even come a time where everybody knows your name. At that point I won’t be there helping you anymore. You’ll be just another writer, another name on a wall. Whether or not I decide to go over you is another story entirely.
5
Ou r Fat h e r Stephen Long
Father Finn had been hearing confessions from Joe Murphy for two
years. He heard the same thing every week: drinking had consumed Joe’s life; it had taken away his job, his wife, his young boy. Fr. Finn believed that Joe’s sorrow was real. Joe had been off the drink since the night his wife had left. Each time they met, Father Finn told Joe that God forgave him. Joe was the only one he had seen in confession in that time. The few remaining visitors only came for Sunday mass or to steal from the collection boxes by the front doors. Many things troubled Father Finn: the decline of confessors, the increase of graffiti on the church and rectory. Then there was the woman who was raped down the road. The night she was attacked, her cries had pierced the neighborhood, but Father Finn had slept through it. He read about it in the newspaper later. She had been on his mind ever since. One Wednesday, after Joe left the confessional booth, Father Finn went out for a walk. Litter was strewn everywhere. Shops were boarded up; homeless men gathered in their entryways. Houses had cages on their windows. In some of them, men beat their wives—men not so different from who Joe used to be. As he walked by the pub on Cove Street, men were crowding outside, standing and yelling wildly as two men in the middle of the enclosure of bodies hit each other. “Keep it moving Father,” one of them said. “We’ve all said our prayers here.” Father Finn shook his head and tucked it in under the collar of his jacket. There was a bitter breeze blowing. He continued down the street, passing bars whose sounds flooded into the street. Argu6
ments, curses, fights, dancing, sex—it was all there on Cove Street. As Father Finn poked his head into of the pubs, the aroma of sweat, fresh blood and whisky filled his nostrils. It repulsed him, but it also enticed him a little. He had had his share of whisky in his day but had stopped before becoming a rave like the rest of the men who found the word of God in their open bottle mouths. Just as he removed his head from the entrance to O’ Looney’s, a rock hit his back. “Ay, Father, there’s no business for you down here!” yelled a kid with no facial hair and a hat with a pom-pom on top. The kid’s friends snickered and muttered behind him. The leader of the pack picked up another stone and made his way across the street to approach him. The others followed suit and came at him with clenched fists and jaws. “You lookin’ for a Mary Magdalene for yourself? A little fun away from the nuns? You’ll find none interested in you down here. Unless you’ve got the money, that is, which I doubt, since my pockets run deep from your charity box there.” So it had been kids, simple kids taking money from the charity boxes. They were out here on Cove Street, throwing stones at priests and whistling at hookers who were searching for customers. The leader cocked his arm back and heaved another stone into Father Finn’s gut. “Where is God, ay? Is he up there, in the sky? No no, he must be over in O’Looney’s, having a pint with my pa, right?” Father Finn shook his head and clenched his fists into shapes of little wrecking balls. “No no, no!” he said through his teeth. “It might be hard to see now, but there is a God. He’s somewhere.” “Bullshit. Take a look around, father. God wouldn’t let His people suffer like this.” Father Finn did take a look around and was overcome with doubt. His tongue began to salivate as the scent of warm whiskey drifted over to his nose again. Another stone crashed into him, this time into his collarbone. “Well, where is he? Stop your day dreamin’. He isn’t here.” The leader child smiled as he saw the look of optimism and 7
faith drain from the priest’s face. Father Finn felt his face getting hot and knew his cheeks were turning red. His pulse picked up speed. The smile quickly slid slowly off the face of the leader child’s face. “Listen, you little…” Father Finn said as he took heavy steps toward the gang. He made a grab for the leader child’s jacket and pulled back hard, hard enough to elicit a squeal. In the middle of his rage, he felt a man stumble into him. He turned around to see Joe, staggering and red in the cheeks. His jaw relaxed; he let the jacket slip from his grip. His eyes widened. Joe’s breath told the whole story. “Two years going,” Father Finn said, “and today we had another confession.” “Looks like this guy is done in real hard. Right boys?” The leader child had had regrouped and was trying to gather laughs. “Get the hell outta here boy!” Joe yelled, using Father Finn as a crutch to balance on. “ I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to! Drugs and all. Go on!” Joe laughed after they’d run off. “Can’t let them lads push you around,” he said. “Come on in. I’ll buy you a pint.” Father Finn felt his pulse rising again. “No, Joe, we’re going home now.” “Just one more, father. No use avoiding it anymore.” As Joe turned to go back into the pub, Father Finn lost control of himself. He took hold of Joe by the jacket collar, nostrils fuming and veins bulging. “Joe! You can’t! We need each other! We do! Joe!” Joe threw Father Finn to the ground. “She’s gone, Father! What do I have to live for? Get the hell away from me! Run on back good ol’ Daddy. Good old God!” Joe Murphy walked back into the pub, dragging his feet. He slumped in the high stool chair at the bar and threw back a shot of whiskey. Then he ordered another pint. Father Finn sat on the cold floor outside the door. He watched as the darkness of the winter night crept up the street. The street light above flickered and did not come on. * 8
The following Wednesday, at Joe Murphy’s scheduled time, Father Finn sat in the confessional booth. After waiting a while he began to scratch at his head and rub his face with worn hands. He could feel the calluses against his cheeks. Joe was never late. Father Finn took the rosary beads out of his pocket. He said a full rosary for Joe this week. He knew Joe needed guidance. And he himself needed a friend. He was alone with the bats that lived up in the bell tower. His parish had been abandoned by the other priests and there had been no new recruits for years. His hair was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot. The calluses on his hand had left scratch marks on his face. When he stood up, he hit the wall of the confessional booth with his hand. Damned Joe Murphy. When he walked out, he heard something break in the back of the church. “Ay! You bastard! Get the hell away from that box!” As his voice rose, so did the pulse in his veins and the speed of his moving feet. He was determined to catch this thief. The small figure made a run for the shattered window. Father Finn made a dive to catch the figure by the back of the coat. When he hit the floor he exhaled quickly, breathing heavily and groaning. It was a child, but one that had the face almost of a baby. So young, and so innocent—but the eyes were cold, lifeless. Father Finn put his head down. The child was gone. * Father Finn had his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his feet on the pew. He felt the rosary beads slipping out of his pocket. They must have broken when he dove. They fell out one by one and scattered around the floor, echoing in the empty church. He managed to save a few and the cross. He grabbed his jacket and walked outside. There was another ring of kids standing on the corner. They glanced at him and quickly looked away. He did not understand why suddenly those punks were afraid to even look at him. He reached into his pocket to get his handkerchief and the 9
remaining beads of the rosary fell out. He wiped his forehead of the sweat that had begun to form. He looked in the window and saw his reflection. His face had markings like those of a tribal warrior on it. He must have pulled out half his head of hair. He had not shaven for about a week. The blues of his eyes could not even be distinguished through the redness. He looked like hell. He made his way through the dimly lit streets. A bitter gust cut at his face. The scratches there began to sting. An image kept running through his head of the child, not past the age of ten, stealing from the church. * He walked into O’Looney’s and nobody even turned to look at him. It occurred to him that he might have looked like a regular by now. Joe Murphy was sitting by himself at a table in the back. He sat down across from him and Joe did not glance up. “Joe” he said. “She didn’t take me back. She didn’t forgive me.” “I suppose you’re not coming back?” “Some things, Father, bring you happiness. A calm. When they leave you, a burn down the throat is the only comfort you can feel.” Father Finn looked straight at Joe. He felt uneasy. He had lost him. His eyes told him so. “I know, Joe. Till we find that calm again. Call me Robert.” He took off his coat and hung it up on the rack by the door. When he returned to Joe, his collar was completely open and he sat down with a thud. They ordered up a round of pints. Robert Finn slowly let himself slip into the elation of the true fatherhood of this town.
10
FISTS Roderick Sang
One-two, one-two. A direct blow to the center, and before the wea-
thered sand bag had time to swing fully backward, Michael followed up with a left hook, the force causing his sweat to disperse in a mist around his fist. Raphael, who had been sitting lazily in the corner, whistled lowly, his face as stolid as always, arms crossed over his chest. Michael, half grinning, huffed between his pants and grunts, bobbing and weaving through imaginary punches before swinging with his full force towards the bag’s heart. “You like that?” Michael asked, his now full grin displaying his blinding white teeth. Raphael merely closed his eyes and shrugged. “You’re not done,” was his only response before he slumped back into the same position as before, appearing as if he hadn’t moved in the first place. “That may have been the case earlier in my career… But I’m gettin’ old now, Raph. I’m not the cocky young kid I was when I first came to you.” Raphael laughed heartily as he got up from the floor. He slipped his hands into his pockets and straightened, taking a look at the significantly younger man. “Listen, kid. When those short, blonde hairs of yours turn the color of my sweater, then you can start talkin’ to me about bein’ old. Understand? Until then, quit yer whinin’. “ He looked sternly at Michael, who had been busy drying himself with a towel too small to absorb his tremendous sweat. “Freakin’ twenty-one year olds and their age issues,” Raphael muttered. “Twenty-five,” Michael half barked in retort. He turned his 11
attention back to the sand-bag, the ceiling chains rattling heavily from the swift strikes of his fists. There was another long silence filled by rattling as Michael performed continuous, graceful strikes. He breathed heavily, yet his breaths were timed with his punches, the air sliced by the edges of his knuckles before they met with the bag. Raphael watched closely, lost in the speed of the swift strikes, before something clicked in his head. “You know, kid,” he said. “Looking at you now, I can see you have changed… Your fists used to be full of rage, so out of control. Some days I honestly thought your hands would bleed to death from how hard you hit that damn bag.” Michael smiled, pulled back a bit on his punches. “I had a lot of issues,” he said. “Is that what you came here for? To work out your teen angst?” “Something like that.” His strikes grew strong and quick again. “I had a lot of pent up anger and it was really starting to— unf!—affect how I did in school and my social life.” Another grunt as he weaved into a stunning uppercut. “It was really messing me up—hah!” Raphael huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well that’s why they say if you’re angry you’ve gotta just let it out. Even if you have to cry or scream at night, you’ve just gotta get it out.” He shrugged and let his arms drop lazily to his side. “And so I came to you,” Michael said matter-of-factly. Raphael rolled his eyes, reaching into his backpack and tossing Michael a fresh and dry towel. “Clean up, I’m lockin’ up.” Michael knew by the tone of his voice that his decision was final. He had already gone past regular hours anyway; Raphael was just being generous that evening. After using the towel he tossed it into his own bag. “Hungry?” Raphael asked him as he went about locking the locker room doors and boxing merchandise cabinets. “Famished,” Michael said. “Wanna grab a quick bite to eat before headin’ home? There’s a new place that opened up not too far from here. It’ll give us something different than the regular fast food crap we normally eat.” 12
“Yeah, and I often like testing new things and trying stuff out.” Raphael threw him an odd glance, wondering if there was double meaning in what he said, but quickly disregarded it. “Zip up,” he said. “It’s a chilly night, and the last thing I need is my star boxer catchin’ somethin’ the week before the competition. Last thing I need is Martinez taking over your spot because you caught some damned cold!” Raphael’s face contorted with nausea at the thought, forcing a chuckle out of Michael. “Why do you keep that guy around anyway? I heard that pretty boy’s a horrible boxer. Can’t even throw a left hook without complaining about something.” “If I had turned away every pretty boy I saw,” he said. “I’d be missing my best boxer.” He gave Michael a playful jab on the shoulder, which bounced off the muscle as though it hit a wall. “If someone had warned me ahead of time about this guy, I wouldn’t have taken him.” “Is he worth the trouble?” Michael asked as they quickly descended the cramp hall of stairs leading to the chill night. “No, but I like his contribution to my rent,” Raphael said before swinging the glass door open. A gust of wind surged into the room, surrounding both of them, stinging their nostrils. Michael coughed from the shock of the cold air, and after noticing Raphael’s pointed glare, dismissed him with his hand. “It’s nothing,” he assured him, but he zipped up anyway, not wanting to take any chances, jogging after Raphael into the enveloping night.
13
Th e Fa m e Khoreece Mendoza
It’s funny how whenever you’ve got somewhere to be everything
turns into an obstacle to circumvent. What’s not funny is what will happen if I don’t make it to work on time. My father will kill me, and not lethal injection style; it will be a massacre. And so I rush through the front gates, across the foyer, down three staircases, and into Mr. Hideki’s office, where I stand gasping for breath. “This is the fourth time this month,” he says. “If you can’t keep this commitment, maybe we should reconsider your situation.” “I give you my word this will be the last time.” “It’d be a shame to lose such a bright young man because he can’t be depended on.” “Never again,” I say. “You’ll make up the time you owe me,” he says. “Be here at 3:20 sharp. You can set up the tables in the back, lay out utensils. And wear a blazer. I’ll see about getting you a cheap one.” “Thank you, sir. I’ll be here.” He makes his way out of the cafeteria as I start to unfold the tables. The lunchroom looks desolate in the morning before everyone gets here. In a way it’s soothing, though, because at least now there’s a reason I’m not talking to anyone. The tantalizing aroma of warm buttermilk waffles and fresh fruits is probably the most torturous part of the job—that or the mole that stares back at you when you trade glances with our lunch lady. The feet start flooding in with the opening of the cafeteria doors. Everyone takes their usual spots, grabs breakfast and copies homework from the night before. I don’t want to sit with any of them, and I’m not even hungry anyway. Upstairs, the jocks and the druggies mingle over their mutual 14
roid fixation and the girls chat about how amazing Gisele looks in that spread. I ghost right on by as usual and make my way to my locker, paying them no mind as they show me the same courtesy. The group that does perpetually manage to captivate me, however, is the Victorias: Victoria Burkhart, Victoria Nelson, and most important, Victoria Lynne. All three are tall, beautiful, and rich. Well, everyone in this school is rich, but these three I’m sure could wipe themselves with a couple Franklins, flush blithely, and think nothing of it. But the money isn’t what impresses me; when these three walk down the hall, they radiate celebrity. Victoria Lynne outshines all of them. Her neck is enveloped in fine cashmere and her body in a long wool houndstooth trench that fits her curves perfectly. Her long thick hair magnificently outlines her cheek bones and slightly obscures the lustrous gray eyes that give her an air a mystery. She’s the type of girl that just effortlessly garners attention and friends. She’s the type I need in my life to achieve the eminence I seek. An obnoxious laugh I know all too well averts my gaze. “You’ll never get a girl like that,” the voice says. “Don’t even think about it.” “I didn’t realize I was thinking out loud.” “Are you new here?” “This is my third year. We have the same last name. I’ve had the locker next to you for years.” “I’m Richard.” “I know that,” I say, accepting his offered hand. “Kevin.” “Why are you still wearing last year’s uniform? Didn’t you hear they swapped out the cardigans for blazers?” “I’m more of uh retro-guy, you know? The old uniform looks better, and it honors the history of the school.” “I dig the retro thing. We should chill after school.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah, why not? You down?” “Yeah man, definitely.” “What’s your cell?” “My what?” “Your cell.” “My cell?” 15
“Your cell phone number?” “I’ve got this new phone coming in from Europe that won’t be here for another two weeks, so I don’t have a number right now. It’s cool; super expensive, though.” “What’s it called?” “It’s hard to pronounce. It’s something European.” He gives me a funny look. “Well, I’ll catch you later,” he says. “Meet by the front gate after school?” “I can’t. I’ve got a detention.” “Detention on a Friday? For what?” “I flipped off a teacher.” “You some kind of badass?” “You could say that.” He makes his way down the hall. If I can make friends in his group I’ll be one rung higher on the social ladder and one step closer to mounting my throne. The bell rings. I slam my locker shut and advance to my first period nap time; they never seem to notice me anyhow. In my dream people are fighting to get a spot next to me on line or on the bus or train. They snap pictures of me and my opulent wardrobe on their fancy camera phones when I’m not looking. I hear the bell ring again; I raise my head and the clock has jumped ahead a lot. I’m in the wrong class, and it’s far too late to catch up. The cafeteria doors fly open again and the same feet start flooding in. I duck by them and see what’s on the menu just for kicks. “Chicken Cordon Bleu with choice of lemon couscous, Cajun rice or steamed vegetables, and a drink. $12.75” Luckily for me, I’ve got two savory pepperoni HotPockets and a Dr. Pepper with my name on them right in my bag. Those suckers have no idea what they’re missing. After lunch I head to study hall to catch up on the work I missed this morning, only to have my thoughts drowned out by a loud conversation about sneezes. “No, yo, but seriously”, the ignoramus says. “I went to this museum and there was like, this exhibit where they show someone sneezing and it’s weird because I never see, like, the water, but you can see it when they slow it down for you.” 16
“When does this period end? Do you know?” “Nah yo, who cares? So yo that thing was crazy when—” “Six minutes,” I say. “Now can I get some work done?” “When you see it and stuff and you can like measure the speed. Some of them can go over like 100 mph!” They ignore me. They must’ve heard my voice; I heard it myself, so they must’ve heard it. They plain ignore me. I get up to go pack my books for the remainder of the day. Near my locker there she is again, Victoria Lynne. Her long legs go on for miles out of her designer flats up to where they cascade into her well rounded bum. She’s alone for once, vulnerable without her crowd. “Hey Victoria,” I say. “I’ve noticed we’ve got a lot in common, so you should come chill with me and my bros after school. They’re juniors too, but don’t worry, we’re cool.” Her eyes trace me up and down, from my worn-in shoes, to my too tight pants, to the patches in my old cardigan. She smirks, then chuckles, obscuring her eyes with her hair, and proceeds silently and gracefully down the hall in the other direction. I hear every word she doesn’t say. I skip my last classes and sit on the floor in the locker room. If I want this girl’s attention, I need money, and I need it fast. The final bell rings and the students begin to flood the locker room. The druggies over in the corner are raving about Oxycodone and how they are going to get their hands on it. Celestial choirs ring through the skies as I see my opportunity. “I can score you guys prescriptions if you want them.” “Who the hell are you? Nice sweater,” the leader of the group says with a pretentious sneer. “My dad works at the pharmacy. I can get what you want.” “What do you want from us?” “Cash.” We arrange a meeting for two hours later. “Don’t punk out,” the leader says. “See you then.” “Hey,” he says. “What the hell is your name anyway?” It’s almost too easy, as if the heavens have led me to the fortune. Mr. Hideki also miraculously acquits me of my duties, so I 17
can go straight there. I pack my bags, throw on my coat and tattered scarf and head out the building. I’ve made my way down the steps and out to the street by the time I hear the voice behind me. “ Detention, huh?” he says. “I get it; you’re bailing on me.” “No, man, not at all. I was just looking for you in fact. They let detention out early.” “The bell just rang like ten minutes ago.” “They let it out really early.” “Lucky you, I guess,” he says, letting it go. “Since you’re not busy, come chill with us. We’re going to get something to eat.” “Where are you going?” “It’s this Japanese Hibachi steakhouse where they bring you your drinks in these like bamboo cups and they cook your whole meal to perfection in front of you.” “I had a big lunch. I’ll chill some other time.” “Alright man. Your loss.” I make my way to the pharmacy. He’s behind the counter fiddling with something. He asks me what I’m doing there. “Mr. Hideki called me this morning and told me you were late,” he says. “What the hell are you thinking? I’ve told you over a hundred times that I’ll—” ”I know, Dad. I’ve assured him it will never happen again.” “You best make sure of that.” “I’ll take care of it. You need any help around the shop?” “Sure,” he says, surprised at the offer. “Go into the back for me and bring out the prescriptions I have pending.” “No problem.” It really is all too easy. I slip two handfuls of 60mg tablets and one handful of 80mg tablets into the inner compartment of my bag. I keep working for my dad for about twenty minutes, and then I leave. He gives me five whole dollars for my time spent with him, I guess he fancies that substantial. I linger in the alley for over an hour until the goons show up. “How much you got for us?” “More than enough, gentlemen,” I say, trying to hide my nerves. “I’ve only got sixties and eighties, though.” “Jesus dude! You trying to kill us? Sixties and eighties? 18
What’s your price?” “I’m not looking to break the bank. What do you usually pay?” “We’ll give you ten per sixty and fourteen per eighty.” “Fine,” I say. “But only for you guys.” We exchange our goods. I’ve taken too much from the till; I still have a handful of pills. I drop them in a sewage drain and continue on my way. I make around nine hundred dollars. I’ve never dreamed I’d hold this much money at one time. I spend five hundred on some clothes that are sure to catch Victoria’s eyes. I remember a couple brands I’ve heard the girls name-drop in the morning. The liberation that comes with carelessly spending is a rush I’ve seldom felt. Observing the Victorias over the years, I’ve taken note of their stores and hangouts. Saturday afternoons they meet up for brunch at this ritzy café. That weekend I show up to a couple of their spots. My prospect, Ms. Lynne, is there again, solitary and vulnerable, sitting by the granite breakfast bar near the window, awaiting her pack. I close in and pounce. “I didn’t quite catch your response the other day in the hallway,” I say. “Seems you got nervous and ran away.” “Who are you?” “I’ll let you play the blasé card.” “What card?” she says, irritated. “What are you talking about?” “You were shaken by my presence and ran away without granting me a response.” “Oh, you’re that new kid with the raggedy old clothes. Well, at least you’ve cleaned yourself up somewhat.” “Raggedy?” I say, raising my hand to my chin, tugging at nonexistent chin hairs and exposing my cufflinks. “No, my choice of clothing in school is merely a fashion statement. It’s tiresome to see all these polished styles. I like to rough things up a bit; it’s chic.” “Chic? So that’s what you call that? What the hell are you doing here anyway? Are you stalking me?” “I hang out here all the time. This is my spot.” “No, this is my spot. I’ve never seen you here before.” 19
“There you go with the blasé card again. You’re overdoing it; it’s unattractive.” “I’m leaving,” she mutters as she gets up hurriedly. “I’m leaving too.” “Well, then I’ll stay.” “Fair enough, but next time we talk, try not to be so timid.” I get up and go before she can reply. My indifferent expression hides my ruined ego. I return home, sullen and conquered. I spend my Sunday finishing the homework I’d neglected during the week. I awake Monday morning and rush to school twenty minutes early to Mr. Hideki’s pleasant surprise. I begin setting up the utensils and walk by the other grant kids unfolding the tables. I watch as the cafeteria flat-screen airs a commercial for a new department store in town. It depicts a women lavishly decked out in retail garments walking down the street; suddenly, she comes to a halt. Another woman, dressed frugally in the department store garments, passes by with a dignified poise that stupefies her. The lavish woman lowers her designer sunglasses and watches the prudent woman depart, and the commercial ends with the department store logo, address, and phone number. I smile triumphantly, finish up my morning duties and make my way up to my locker. In the hallway the druggies stagger violently, managing not to trip over their own feet. I begin inputting my locker combination when I see her leading her pack down the hall. It is my moment to shine. I slam my locker shut, wrap my patched scarf around my neck, brush off my tattered cardigan, and march exultantly down the hall, cutting between Victoria Lynne and Victoria Burkhart and muttering a faint “Pardon me ladies”. This unwritten but mutually understood social felony effects a complete silence throughout the hall. I don’t turn back but can feel their eyes on my back as I stride. “Who the hell is that kid?” I hear a distant voice mutter. “I don’t know,” someone else says. “Never seen him before in my life.” But it’s alright. That day, for the first time in years, I eat lunch in the cafeteria. In my mind I do not dine alone. The Victorias and I converse about our tastes in music and fashion. The cafeteria is quieter than usual. And I have never been happier than this. 20
Resentment Carlo Santiago
The woman walked as if invisible strings held her head in place.
A look of determination was painted on her face as she crossed the busy New York City street. The strong scent of black garbage bags stung her nose. She rushed around the corner to a diner, her usual place for an early morning cup of coffee. The woman had long, blonde hair and light make-up applied to her face. She wore a black tank-top and jeans. She worked as a waitress at a nearby restaurant, but her shift didn’t start for another couple of hours. After ordering, she sat by herself at her usual booth, staring off into space. “Sausage, egg, and hash brown?” the waitress behind the counter yelled, lazily holding onto a plate with one hand. The woman found a folded newspaper on a nearby table and picked it up, scanning the pages for possible good news, a rarity. She turned and jumped at the sight of a tall man wearing dark sunglasses and a long black coat. “Jesus!” “I’m sorry. Did I make you jump? I’m sorry for making you jump.” “It’s fine.” She took a sip from her steaming cup of coffee before realizing the man was still standing before her. “Can I help you?” “Is this seat taken?” the man asked. “No.” “Can I sit here?” “No.” The man sighed. “You don’t remember me, Franny? At all? It’s George!” 21
Franny searched her mind for any memory of a George in her life and came up short. “George?” “From high school. Remember I asked you out, and then you started to date my brother? Yeah.” Benjamin was his name. The star football player. A decade ago, she was the head cheerleader supporting her boyfriend at rallies and games. She thought about him from time to time. “George, Ben’s little brother. I remember. Have a seat.” George sat across from her. “How’ve you been? This place is disgusting. The seats and tables aren’t even steady. I think they need to refurnish.” Franny’s face filled with confusion. “Is that…something you would do?” George paused. “Oh, no, I work in an office. Lot of paperwork, fax machines, paper clips…” “That sounds exciting,” Franny scoffed, taking another sip from her cup. “What do you do? We haven’t spoken in how long? Ten years?” Franny started to recall the differences between George and Benjamin. George was quiet, repressed, a loner. Benjamin was loud, athletic, and popular. Franny always noticed George’s devious eyes examining her while she was in Benjamin’s arms. “Well, yeah. I mean, we really never got to hang out. That happens as kids. We drift apart because we’re too involved in our own lives, I guess.” George nodded, intensely listening to every sentence. “I’m a waitress. I work at a restaurant not far from here.” She regretted those words as soon as they escaped her mouth. “Good for you.” They talked about life on Long Island. She remembered there was something off about George; he would eavesdrop and stare. He was always jealous of his older brother. Franny picked up on this shortly after she started dating Benjamin. “What was Benjamin like?” he asked. “What do you mean?” “I mean, you dated for a while and…” 22
She held up her hand. “Don’t start that.” “Start what?” George yelled, quickly angered. He pounded his fist, staining the counter with Franny’s coffee. “You saw red whenever we used to talk,” Franny said. “You think nobody noticed whenever Ben was around me?” “You’re lying!” Franny scoffed, looking around the diner. Nearly empty. It wasn’t like anybody would save her if George decided to fall further off the deep end and do something. “I’ll tell you what…” She grabbed a pen from her purse and starting to write on a napkin from the counter. “I really have to get going. Here’s my number.” She handed it to him, smirking. George remained still, and after a few seconds, snatched it out of her hands. “Your number?” Franny rolled her eyes as she flipped open her phone from the purse resting on her lap. “You see these buttons here? With the numbers on them? If you type that code from the napkin, I’ll start talking from that tiny hole at the top.” “I know what a phone is,” George said. He smiled, clutching the napkin as she rose from her seat. “Goodbye, George,” she said, throwing the straps of her purse on one shoulder. She pushed open the door to the diner, leaving half of her coffee behind with George. She hoped he wouldn’t dial until she was far away; the number wasn’t in service. Franny sat in a cab, locking eyes with George through the diner window. She wondered what his future held, whether he would always resent the past, hang onto it. The past was his comfort; to her, it meant only unpleasant surprises. But she was already headed down the street.
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Daniel Gomes
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D e v i l’ s W o r k James Tarrant
I’m convinced that I met Satan at a Waffle House just a few miles
south of San Antonio, Texas. It was just like any other night; the air wasn’t right to go home. Lenny and I had been out partying. Somewhere along the line he had managed to score some crank, and was acting the way he always did when he smoked. Hungry, I convinced him to take me out for breakfast. As we walked in the door, every employee in the joint said, almost in unison, “Good Morning!” Cheeriness at three in the morning must be hard to achieve, especially at minimum wage. We slid into the only booth, though the dishes had yet to be cleared. “Hey goofy, how about getting this crap out of our way?” God, Lenny was a jerk when he was like this. The sole bus ‘boy’ was a girl with birth defects. She was fumbling with a broom and dustpan in front of the doughnut rack. “Len, give her a break,” I whispered, embarrassed. “Can’t you see that she’s slow?” “Well, tell her to get her ass over here and clear our table,” Lenny grumbled, pushing the dishes to the center of the table. That’s when I saw him. He was at the counter with a coffee in front of him, just a few feet from our booth. He crouched over his cup. His head was in his hands, staring directly ahead into the mirror behind the counter. His eyes met mine in that mirror. The moment I saw those eyes, and I knew that he was not of this earth. As he stared into my soul, I wanted to run screaming into the night. I wanted to get away from that place, away from him. But I couldn’t get up. I really don’t think that Lenny even noticed him until the man got up from the counter, turned and stood over our table. 34
I don’t know why I can’t remember what he looked like. I do remember that he was old, and I remember the smell. The smell is not something that can easily be described. “Leonard, why do you torment her so?” the old man hissed, leaning forward toward Lenny. He smiled, displaying decaying teeth. “Can’t you see that she’s already serving her sentence?” “Back up old man,” Lenny stammered. Even Lenny, smashed as he was, was taken aback by this guy’s appearance. Did he call Lenny by name? The old man reached out and grabbed Lenny’s wrist. Startled, Lenny pulled back. For a moment, there was a tug of war as Lenny worked to rescue himself from the old man’s grip. Lenny raised his hand and curled his fingers into a fist, preparing to deliver a blow to his head, and then he froze. For what seemed an eternity, they were just there, staring into one another’s eyes. “Done!” the old man croaked, releasing Lenny’s wrist. Lenny plastered himself into the far corner of the booth as the man in black turned to me. “You need to teach your friend some manners, Mary Elizabeth,” he said. “Now you’ll have that chance.” He paused at the door and placed a hat on his head. Oddly, I remember thinking that most native Texans don’t bother to remove their hats indoors. He looked up and grinned at me; he seemed almost proud of his teeth. “I’ll be here next week at this time. Maybe I’ll see you.” Everyone in the diner breathed a collective sigh of relief as the door shut behind him. I hadn’t realized that it had gotten quiet and every eye in the place had been on us. As the old man walked out into the night and the darkness claimed him, the din of the diner resumed as loudly as ever. I was too shook up to eat. Lenny must have really been freaked out, because he barely said a word for the rest of the evening. We went back to my house. He stumbled off to bed as soon as we got in the door, leaving a trail of discarded clothing. I would have thought that he’d have problems sleeping, but I could tell that he was dead to the world. I changed into some sweats and pulled a blanket around me 35
on the couch. I would have gone to bed with Lenny, but I was afraid he’d wake up and want some attention. Sex was the last thing on my mind. I thought about the old man’s words and wondered what they meant. I knew something was about to happen; I could sense it with everything in me. It was dawn before I finally fell asleep. * In my dream, Lenny and I were married and arguing about how to discipline our son. He wanted to spank him, and I wouldn’t allow it. In my dream, Lenny was young and healthy, like he was before the alcohol and crystal meth. We argued, then he turned and walked toward the bedroom, where I could hear a child crying. He pulled the belt from his pants and folded it in half. Suddenly, I was awake. I stumbled from the couch to see what was making that dreadful wailing noise, almost a squeal. It was coming from the bedroom. I swung open the door and was confused at what I saw. Sitting upright in the middle of my bed was a boy of maybe eight years old. He was terrified. He’d look at his hands, then peer at his image in the mirror, all while howling like a little puppy. “Mary, you’ve got to help me,” he squeaked. “Oh Jesus, what’s happened to me?” “Who are you?” I managed. Somehow I knew the answer; my mind just refused to accept it. “It’s me, Mary! It’s Lenny! Don’t you know me?” Although there were so many things that I didn’t understand, one thing was clear. Last night we met the Devil, or something very close, and Lenny was paying the price. “The old man did this to me,” Lenny said desperately. “I look like a kid! You don’t think I’ll stay like this, do you?” “Lenny, is that really you?” I asked. “This is so weird…” I thought that I’d better sit down, so I took a place on the edge of the bed. Lenny retreated to the opposite corner, dragging the sheet with him. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the child. It was definitely Lenny. I was at a loss for words. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel?” he shouted. “Look at me; I’m a 36
dwarf!” “You’re not a dwarf,” I corrected. “You’re a child. And don’t get pissed off at me; I had nothing to do with this.” “I gotta be dreaming,” he moaned, pulling the sheet to his neck. “This can’t be happening.” I stared at the child, amazed. The diction and speech patterns were all Lenny’s, only now the words flowed from the mouth of a little boy. The expressions on his face were Lenny’s; so was the way he moved. It was something to see. “Well? What are you waiting for?!” the boy said. My mind raced; I had no clue what to do. The doctors would laugh, and so would the police. I didn’t know who that man was or where to find him, and that’s only if he really did have something to do with this. “Are you going to do something?” The boy shook my arm. “Yes, I am,” I said. I got up and headed for the bathroom. “What are you gonna do?” I didn’t answer. He started to shout things about my not caring about his situation, but I was already ignoring him. I had no clue what to do except to take a nice warm shower. * An hour later I found myself racing through Wal-Mart, attempting to buy some clothes. It was Sunday, and the store closed at six. I did not have much time. I guessed at the sizes and just grabbed some stuff. I threw some jeans in various sizes into the cart, and then found some t-shirts and underwear. He’d need some shoes and socks; again, I guessed at the size. I was out of the store in less than thirty minutes. I was upset for leaving Lenny alone, and I wanted to get home. Lenny was in the bathroom with the door shut. “I bought some clothes for you,” I said. “I think some of these things should fit.” The door opened a crack, and he poked his little head out. “Come on out; let’s see how I did.” He stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his body, and shuffled into the dining room. He was different than I’d remembered. 37
“Jesus, Lenny. Look at you,” I marveled. “What are we going to do?” Lenny moaned as he gazed up at me. “I’m so little…” I took a breath; it was obvious that I was going to have to take control of this situation. “We’re going to have to take this one step at a time, honey. First, let’s get you dressed,” I knelt down next to him and reached for the towel. “No, I don’t want you to see me!” He pulled away. “I can do it myself.” “Don’t be silly, Lenny. It’s no big deal.” I tugged at the towel and it fell away, leaving Lenny standing before me. He used his hands to cover himself. He was a handsome little boy, the kind of child that I’d hoped to have if I ever had a kid. His skin was flawless. I put my hand on his shoulder and turned him around, inspecting his little body from both sides. “I think most of these things are going to be too big,” I said. “But let’s see what we have.” Twenty minutes later, he was fully dressed. Most of the clothes were much too big, but the smallest pair of jeans was passable, and he had three sets of tiny blue briefs that, although too large, were better than nothing. It was so cute when he put on the briefs; he asked me to turn my head! The smallest t-shirt that I’d bought was ridiculously huge; he seemed to drown in it. “I don’t know how I could have been so wrong about the sizes,” I said. He was curled in a corner of the couch, his knees to his chest. He was deep in thought. He looked up at me, and I couldn’t recognize the look in his eyes. He stood up and walked to the front door. “Where are you going?” I shouted after him. He didn’t reply; he just walked out. When I opened the door there was just a note on my doorstep: Dear Mary, Lenny could not change, and you could not help him. You’re better off. You Know Who 38
My Sweet Grandmother Peter Orphanides
My sweet old grandmother; what a great way to start off a memoir
or an autobiography of some sort. Or a eulogy, if she were dead. Let me say my grandmother is alive and well and the most neurotic person I have ever met. She’s forever wrangling over whether to cook ten pounds of lasagna or twelve pounds. I remember once I got a perfect score on an exam and she told me I could do better. She had trouble accepting that twelve did not go evenly into 100, twelve of course being the number of apostles in biblical literature. Everybody loves the woman, but boy can she make a person sweat. She used to tell me stories of smelling my father’s breath every time he came home on Saturday night. If it smelled like alcohol, he would be grounded for three weeks. If it smelled like anything else, he would be grounded for five for trying to cover up the smell. She’s getting old. Her hair is as white as Christmas Eve, while her face is more wrinkled than a dried up orange peel. She never likes walking with her cane, but she certainly makes good use of it. She bashes people in the head with it like it’s nothing. Every time I’m out of line, she winds up and cracks my skull. “Don’t do it grandma,” I say in a state of terror. “Don’t you test me, son,” she says. “I will whack you so hard that your brains will be even more useless than they already are.” “Okay, grandma,” I say. “One day when you’re older you will understand.” I could have sworn it was her the other day. She was walking from the grocery store at a leisurely pace when I saw her jump over an all-terrain vehicle. In one hand she was holding her cane; in the 39
other, what looked like about sixty pounds of groceries. She cleared that ATV by a few feet. She used her cane to help her spring. “In my day we used to lift the stove with one hand and beat the hell out of a mouse with the other,” she said to me that evening. “Today I see a bunch of wusses running around acting tough.” “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.” I was at her apartment one day helping her set up her VCR when a neon light flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t tell what it was, but the next moment my grandmother had horns. She rode up and down her street in a Harley-Davidson and asked to be called a living legend of New York City. In her apartment there is an aroma that is always the worst thing I smell that day, a cross between old chewing gum and gym sneakers. The place is perpetually strewn with empty beer bottles. One day she was in her room chugging a forty and watching Ultimate Fighting Championship when she took her cane and broke it over her head. I had to buy her a replacement cane. Later, I asked her why she did it. “Anderson Silva,” she said. “That guy is unbelievable. Wait till you get to be his age. Will you be whooping ass on every fighter thrown your way? I doubt it.” I don’t know how my grandfather ever lasted around her. I can’t even spell my name in front of her, I’m so afraid. But I love that old woman; she’s like a grandmother to me. I love that every time she comes over, my fridge is always filled with protein powder after she leaves. I love that she leans her cane against the wall whenever she goes to the bathroom. She doesn’t even need it; it’s just a prop. She benches about 220lbs, and I wonder whether she could even lift her own legs, they’re so muscular. Every time I see her at the gym she’s squatting about a thousand pounds. I guess that’s just the sort of person she is, the kind who makes a Thanksgiving feast in the middle of August, who starts a snowball fight on the first day of spring, and who beats the hell out of people with a cane she doesn’t need. When we bury her, I’m keeping that cane.
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Hope Edwin Mercado
The lights began to dim and eventually went off.
The chatter that had once filled the house died down so that the only sounds remaining were of people shifting in their seats and clearing their throats. He sat beside his wife, hoping to get his money’s worth. His wife seemed eager, shifting in her seat and flipping through the playbill. Her hair was done up and she had her best dress on, as well as some expensive earrings and a necklace that her grandmother had given her. It seemed that she had bathed herself in perfume. He could not understand what all the excitement was about. He looked toward the stage, waiting. He was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a red tie, the outfit that he always wore to events like this. He thought that it made him look presentable, as though he actually cared. He looked at his watch, though he could not make out the time. After a minute or so, lights came on and illuminated the stage, which had been set with a background and some props. Actors soon came out after the applause had died down. They were already talking, arguing about something, starting the play off in medias res. This annoyed him. He hated when anything started like this—books, for instance. He wanted to be told what was going on from the get-go. After watching some more, and finally figuring out what was up, he found he had no interest in the play. It was about a boring historical something-or-other that he had probably learned about in school. The actors were a comical bunch in their getups, having to produce voices with strange accents. One of the actors seemed really involved, getting into his part with a great deal of emotion. It was hard for him not to laugh at this actor’s performance, though he tried to resist doing so. One of the actresses had a 41
large bosom, and he preoccupied himself with considering it. For the remainder of the play he found ways to entertain himself. He fiddled with his tachymeter, enjoying the sound it made as he turned it clockwise and counter-clockwise. He stared at the architecture, some of which he found interesting. He began to wonder how the moldings were crafted with such precision. He gave up shortly after failing to coming up with an answer. The audience itself was also something he kept himself entertained with. He enjoyed how he could stare at someone and they would be so caught up in what they were watching that they would not realize they were being watched themselves. They would smile, laugh, whisper to their partner, all without knowing that someone was noticing them. Often he would have to keep himself from laughing. Their reactions were sometimes too much to bear, resulting in his ducking his head and chuckling. His wife would rib him with her elbow and give him a scowl that quickly put him in his place. For the remainder of the play, he sat with his head resting on his hand. Time seemed to be moving at snail’s pace. At one point during one of the more exciting parts, the pit orchestra began to play louder and produced a frantic sound. He turned his attention to the members of the orchestra, some of whom were moving vigorously. This was especially true of the lead violinist, who was moving as if he were having a fit, causing his hair to toss and turn. The man began to look messy, with his hair now undone and his face glistening with sweat. He began to wonder why this was. What was causing this grey, balding, boring-looking man to become so fired up? It was only music, for God’s sake. After the play had ended, he and his wife began to make their way to the lobby. “Wasn’t that play just wonderful?” she exclaimed. “The acting was so skillful.” He snorted. “It was alright,” he said. “I’ve seen better.” She stopped in her tracks and stared. Others from the play gave her looks as they attempted to avoid her. “What?” he asked stupidly. He began to notice the anger welling up in her, and decided to take a different approach. “I mean, yeah,” he said. “It was okay. The acting was good 42
and you know… the music…” He trailed off. Her eyes pierced him like a needle. “If you didn’t want to come, you didn’t have to,” she said. “It actually would have been much better, not having you fidgeting the whole damn time.” As she began to storm toward the exit, he followed after her. “Honey,” he said. “Come on. You know I don’t like this stuff.” “Yeah I know,” she said as she busted through the door. “But I thought, ‘Hey, maybe this guy is finally making a freaking attempt at being, you know, cultured.” She threw her arms up. “I guess I was wrong. Again.” He thought about what she had said, shrugged, and thought about the actress with the large bosom. Tension filled the car during the ride home. His wife drove as he sat in the passenger’s seat, trying to find ways to entertain himself. He rapped on the dashboard. It was a rhythmical mess that his wife soon drowned out with the radio. He examined his fingernails and began to bite those that seemed most appealing, which turned out to be all of them. His wife glanced over at him several times as he went to work. She turned down the radio. “Will you stop that,” she said. “It’s gross.” He quickly took his hand away. After several moments he put his hand up to his face again. He caught himself just in time and decided to scratch his beard. He then began to stare out the window into the darkness. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and fell asleep. He had dreamed of the buxom actress taking off her shirt, the violinist’s head exploding, and his wife eating him whole. The image of his wife’s mouth expanding and consuming him caused him to wake with a start. Confused as to where he was, he gazed around in the near pitch-dark. His wife was nowhere to be found. The dashboard clock said it was a quarter to eleven. He straightened out of his slouched position, stretched, scratched his stomach and left the car. He stumbled as he got out. He gazed at his house. The bottom floor lights were on. He approached the door and began to open it. He made sure not to make much noise. Standing at the threshold, he could hear his wife talking on the phone. “I don’t know anymore,” she was saying. “It’s gotten to the 43
point that we can’t have a decent conversation without him making a complete ass out of himself.” He tried to close the door slowly, but it only produced a squeak. He then shut it quickly. “Wait,” he heard her say. “I think I just heard him come in. I’ll call you back.” He bolted for the staircase and took the steps two at a time. “Don’t forget that you have to tutor Susie’s daughter tomorrow,” she said. He stopped dead; he had completely forgotten this chore. Why tomorrow? Why at all? Maybe if he made up an excuse about work. No, that would only make him look even more like an ass. “I know,” he replied. He continued up the stairs. He took off his clothes, put on his pajamas, and lay down on the bed—a bed that after the kids had left had been used exclusively for sleep. He pulled the covers over his head and began to rack his brain for an excuse that he could sell to his wife. After several minutes of failure he began to picture himself sitting with the girl, trying to teach her something that a professional had failed to teach her. When he woke up the next morning he found that his wife had already left for work. She had left some breakfast in the microwave and some coffee in the pot. Though it had grown cold, he devoured it anyway. In the shower he allowed the water to hit his head and run down his back. He worked behind a desk in a cubicle in an office in a building in the middle of nowhere. His job consisted of requesting facts and figures from others and reporting on his findings. Coworkers did the same thing he did, while droning on to one another about their kids, their vacations, and (after making sure no one was paying attention) their superiors. The office itself was painted a shade of grey over several shades of grey that had faded but were equally as dull. It smelled as if several fax machines had been in constant use for years in that room. Little had changed since he first arrived years ago. Once, a drone had stapled his finger and bled for fifteen minutes. Even after the man had applied a bandage, the excitement remained throughout 44
the week and spilled over into the next. A superior visited a drone in the cubicle next to his. In hopes of impressing the superior, who seemed to not notice his existence, he attempted to work. He could not help but notice the whole office slowly make its way toward the superior. This reminded him of a documentary he had once seen on the effects of gravity on objects such as dirt and rocks. The conversation soon grew dull. He couldn’t avoid thinking of the hopelessness of his situation. He gazed around at the grey desks built into the cubicles aligned nearly perfectly with one another in the grey-painted room, and then put his head down on his desk and fell asleep. He awoke to find the sun beginning to set. Only a few desks were still occupied, by drones whose faces were plastered with a look of intense concentration. The faint sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard at some other end of the office. Then he remembered that he had to tutor Susie’s daughter, Hope. He rushed down to the parking lot and sped off, praying that he would not be too late. After knocking on the door and being let in, he was reintroduced to Hope. She had porcelain skin and an unconfident way about her. Her face was round and still had baby fat. She was extremely shy, looking down at her shoes when being talked to, and the floor when talking. After some initial hesitation, he got to work. He was to teach her percentages and fractions. He began by explaining certain fundamentals. He gave her information step by step, walking her through example equations. He only realized he had become fully absorbed in this activity after a clatter from the kitchen jolted him from his intense focus. He noticed that her eyes had grown wide. He asked if she had any questions. She did have a few, and he answered them simply but effectively. Her eyes began to dance about the pages in search of others to ask. She did a few problems on her own and he looked them over. A smile spread across his face as he told her that her answers were all correct. She looked down, blushed, and smiled too. Joy settled into the room like a fine mist as they considered the problems she was solving.
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Sailing around the Room Chris Fenimore
Come one! Come all! See the purple pig wonder! read the sign out-
side the Stork Club. Down a winding staircase and through an iron door was a dark lounge that managed somehow to seem bright. The patrons’ attire suggested sophistication: men in fine suits, women in elegant dresses that revealed more than their equivalents had a decade before. At the bar sat Johnny, in a suit and fedora, and Tony, the younger of the two, in a sweater and dress pants. Both had their sleeves rolled up. “Have you seen the pig?” Tony looked around awkwardly. “Where is it? I don’t see it.” “Whoa, relax, kid,” Johnny said. “Have a drink! It’s on me.” He laughed. “Hey, sweet thing,” he yelled confidently. “Let me get two shots of vodka for me and my friend here.” The waitress smiled at him and he winked back. Johnny looked appraisingly at Tony, who was sweating; he loosened a button on his shirt. “How’s business been?” Tony didn’t respond. The waitress returned with the drinks. “Don’t go anywhere when you get off,” he whispered in her ear, smoothly handing her a twenty. “I won’t,” she said. “Can we get down to business now? That’s what we’re here for, right?” “Listen, this joint is alright,” Johnny said firmly. “Just sit back and take a shot.” Tony sat back and admired the suits of the gentlemen in the room. He saw the way the women were dressed and looked down at 46
the shot in front of him. “Look, Sergeant sent me here to get an envelope from you. There isn’t much more I really want. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want drinks.” “You’ll get your envelope. Hang out a little. Soak up the scene.” “Sergeant said to ask you how purple the pig really is.” “He asked that, did he?” Johnny chuckled. “Tell him it’s as purple as the other pigs in the city!” “In those exact words? Do I say anything else?” “Jeez, kid. How old are you? Just say what I told you. Is that too hard for you?” “No.” “Drink up. You’d want to listen to me, especially tonight.” Tony looked at the women’s dresses again. He looked at a waitress on the other side of the lounge leaned against the far wall. He looked down at his drink, and at his sweater. “She’s a cutie, ain’t she?” Tony picked up his shot and swallowed his poison. “Hey hey, kid! There you go.” Johnny exclaimed. Now we’re in business! Give this kid two more shots, eh?” The waitress bent over the table and Tony saw down her blouse. “My eyes are up here,” she laughed. “Where’d you get this one from?” “The good Sergeant sent him here to pick something up.” Laughing again, the waitress left to retrieve the shots. “The envelope’s right here, but you’ve got to tell me something first.” Johnny leaned in. “Which days does Sergeant take off?” “I don’t think I should be talking about this.” “You tell me and you’ll have money coming out of your ears. I’ll ask you again slowly. Which days does Sergeant take off?” Tony loosened his tie and stared off awkwardly. His mind sailed around the room like a boat on a gusty day. He gazed above his own head and saw the sharp crystals of a chandelier. “Sundays only.” 47
“You saved me a lot of money!” “What do you mean? Sergeant knows you were going to ask that, right?” Johnny took out the envelope in his pocket and handed it to Tony. “Take this. Don’t speak of it to anyone. I’ll contact you. Don’t worry about anything else. It was a pleasure, Tony.” “Wait! What do I tell Sergeant?” “Don’t worry about it,” Johnny yelled back. He had taken his jacket off the coat rack and placed it on. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Hang out here ‘til I get back.” Tony sat down in his seat and took another shot. “What’s today’s date?” he clumsily questioned the waitress. “December 11th.” “Which day I mean?” he stuttered. “Sunday,” she said blankly and walked away. Tony began to sweat. Nothing in the room was visible anymore; it was all darkness. He felt himself slipping, fainting. “Hey, you survived!” The sound of Johnny’s voice brought him back. “Now, like I said, don’t ask any questions tomorrow at work. Don’t speak about what happened here tonight. Don’t try to contact me; I’ll contact you.” Tony felt the envelope in his pocket. It was thicker and heavier than he had realized. “O.K.” “That’s it? No questions, kid?” “No.” Tony got up and walked over to the coat rack. He pulled his jacket off. “Don’t you need a hat?” Johnny yelled from the table. “It’s raining out, and it’s gonna snow pretty bad later!” He didn’t reply; he would need more cover than a raincoat could provide. He opened the door and began his slow ascent up the stairs.
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