2008 - Glendale Community College

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Teeny by Susan Fisher Honorable Mention The cumbersome housekeeping cart clacked over sidewalk cracks and petrified clumps of gum. Dull strands of silverstreaked hair matted in sweat on Teeny’s cheeks as she pushed the cart to the stairs. Teeny backed up the stairs, each step a wrestling match with the cart. Kaplunk. Ka-plunk. Unlabeled spray bottles tipped and the stack of folded towels teetered with each bump up. Three steps away from the landing, the towels – dingy and stiff from seasons of hard-water washings – toppled like injured doves into the fire-thorn bushes lining the sidewalk below. Head lowered, mouth twisted and muttering, Teeny tugged the cart up the final steps. Mr. Askari’s eyes narrowed and twitched as he lurked in the shade of the Motor Inn’s faded awning. Teeny pushed wide the half-open door of the first room and was greeted by the stench of stale beer and sweat. She scooped the damp towels and rumpled sheets from the floor and holding them away from her body, she went to the doorway and dumped them into the stained laundry bag fastened to the back of the cart. “Teeny!” Mr. Askari had moved to the bottom of the stairs, flapping a hairless arm at the bushes. “What are clean towels doing in the bushes?” Teeny slunk to the railing and looked down. Mr. Askari pointed a shaking finger at the towels. “Clean those up.” Teeny slowly came down to the step above Mr. Askari, who did not move. Teeny’s eyes were level with the sweat stains scarring the armpits of his shirt, a shirt so thin she could the brown skin glistening through it. Scuttling past him, pressed against the stair rail to avoid contact, she began grabbing towels. Her arms quickly reddened and bled from the sharp thorns as she unsnared the tangled laundry. With a final glare at Teeny over his beak-like nose, Mr. Askari stalked into the cool motel lobby. Teeny tugged the last towel free and frowned at the gray and white threads clinging moss-like to the thorns. Leaving the waving strands behind, she clasped 48 the rescued towels to her chest and did an awkward crab walk to the laundry room. Soothing her arms in the cool dampness of the evaporative cooler, she heard Mr. Askari hiss at her from the lobby door. “And another thing . . . scrub up the pigeon poop out here and then see me!” It’s Friday, Teeny. Tomorrow the park. Comforted, Teeny grabbed the old scrub broom and bucket of sudsless water and vigorously attacked caked-on pigeon droppings. As she wrung out the mop, Mr. Askari stepped out and handled her a grimy, unsealed envelope. “Here, Teeny. These are your wages for the week. I don’t need you anymore.” Teeny stared at the thin envelope with its few bills and coins. She blinked, the hand not holding the mop clinched at her side. Mr. Askari shook the envelope at her. “Teeny. Take your pay and leave.” Teeny reached for the envelope with her fingertips, watching Mr. Askari’s wire-rimmed glasses begin a slow slide down his nose. He pointed in the direction of the housekeeping room with one hand as he pushed up his glasses with the other. “And clean out your locker.” Teeny held on to her lifeline. It’s Friday, Teeny. Tomorrow the park. With tattered handbag bulging with salvaged paperbacks, deodorant wipe, and a spare short-sleeved shirt, Teeny made her way home from the Motor Inn. She didn’t look back at the motel. Home was a small furnished apartment in a downtown hotel and her rent was paid through the end of May – two more Saturdays. Once inside the small room, Teeny placed her belongings away in the closet and lay down on the old bed, arms crossed over her chest, and slept. The morning sun pushing through the kitchen window poked at Teeny’s closed lids. A yarn-strung dream catcher hanging over the window caught and filtered the rays into a mystical map on the yellowed linoleum floor. Teeny pulled her grannysquare afghan up to her chin. Barely held together by bits of mis-matched yarn, it offered comfort rather than warmth. She wrinkled her nose at the lingering scent Traveler
of cat urine from a prior tenant who preferred eviction to living alone. Her tired eyes took in the tiny kitchenette, with its round plastic table precariously balanced on an empty matchbook and two folding chairs, where Thomas Jr. came and sat the last Sunday of each month. Thomas Jr. always came alone, so Teeny never needed more chairs. She reached under her pillow for her worn rosary, and rolled the glass beads between her thumb and forefinger. This and the dream catcher were all that were left of her life with Thomas. Unless one counted Thomas Jr., and Teeny didn’t. It’s Saturday! Thoughts of the park nudged Teeny out of bed. From the tiny room under the eaves that served as her bathroom and closet, she dressed in her Saturday clothes: thrift-store denim skirt, gauzy peasant blouse that covered her sharp bones and age-speckled chest, and soft anklets to protect her heels from blisters. Today and next Saturday. Teeny sighed. Until another job, another room. On the way to the square, Teeny’s busy eyes soaked up familiar sights: twenty-two parking meters (one still broken), Kinko’s all-night copy center, the Italian bistro, and a tiny Jewish bakery. Officer Cecil and Pal, his German Shepherd, were making their rounds and Officer Cecil stopped and greeted Teeny. She stooped and buried her fingers into Pal’s coarse hair, stretching them deep into the dog’s soft, warm undercoat where she could feel his steady heartbeat. She smiled happily up at Officer Cecil. Teeny never touched Thomas Jr. At the park, Teeny spread the afghan under her tree. She picked up tiny pebbles and twigs that poked up through the holes, painstakingly setting them aside in piles. Teeny had performed this ritual on every visit to the park, yet she was always surprised to find more rocks and twigs each week. Intent on her task, Teeny looked neither right nor left as her thin arms moved in a practiced rhythm organizing her spot. Tourists guardedly crossed the park, keeping their distance and avoiding the regulars, casting furtive glances at the bent-over grey form picking at the ground. At last Teeny settled, satisfied with her handiwork. Opening her sack, she pulled out an over-ripe apple and surveyed the scene. Glendale Community College Put off by their shields of mental illness, shyness, or indifference, Teeny never intruded the privacy of the park’s regulars. Instead, she assigned each of them names and imagined histories and lives about them. The younger (younger only when compared to the others) black man reclined in his customary spot on the brick bench next to a planting area filled with bushes thirsting in May’s dry heat. At first sight, his profile had aroused in Teeny a lost school-year memory of a regal Roman ruler. Drops of sweat had shimmered among the black and silver nappy coils of hair and envisioning a crown of silver, Teeny had christened him Claudius. Today, however, his only crown was the hood of his dirty-orange sweatshirt. A rolled-up army surplus blanket cushioned his head and propped-up knees served as a stand for the tattered paperback that was his constant companion. Teeny longed for the courage to give Claudius her offering of used paperbacks. She leaned forward to brush a leaf from her sneaker and caught a glimpse of China-Man pushing his rickety bicycle across the rough paving stones. China-Man was Teeny’s favorite. Every week he wore a different pair of shoes, none of them ordinary. Acknowledging her own unfulfilled shoe fetish, Teeny coveted this week’s cardinal-red Keds as they turned on the pedals like brightlycolored ferris wheel seats. She stretched out her skinny legs with their knobby knees, picturing soft red slippers adorning her own feet. China-Man had a knack for knowing which unsuspecting diner strolling to his car would be willing to part with a carton of take-home. The wire basket of China-Man’s Jump by John Huber Silver Gelatin Print 49
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Page 7 and 8: Raised voices came to us from down
Page 9 and 10: s s s s From then on, I went to the
Page 11 and 12: her back, naked under a grimy sheet
Page 13 and 14: Starlight Boy by Renzy Bordeleau I
Page 15 and 16: things out, that is, until you saw
Page 17 and 18: Glendale Community College Freedom
Page 19 and 20: she’s rescued; a forlorn ladder-b
Page 21 and 22: steel of an angular painting knife,
Page 23 and 24: Death by Marianne Ferrari, Poetry 3
Page 25 and 26: your f inal by Ed Swanson Poetry 2n
Page 27 and 28: your crummy nickel,” Dad said mer
Page 29 and 30: The Housewife B LUES T by Rachel Ri
Page 31 and 32: Daydreaming by Veronica Aguilar Cha
Page 33 and 34: the opposite zabuton cushion from h
Page 35 and 36: “You and Mana-chan were my reason
Page 37 and 38: A Tale Of Love and Light Claudia Ma
Page 39 and 40: Untitled Ceramic by Robert McBride
Page 41 and 42: Untitiled by Bryan Schnebelt Cerami
Page 43 and 44: a hard plastic, numbered token, to
Page 45 and 46: The Migratory Patterns I of Tropica
Page 47 and 48: or later. Someday that might be me:
Page 49: indiscriminately swooping the light
Page 53 and 54: “Well, gee. Fired. That’s it, h
Page 55 and 56: we applied wheels and a little bit
Page 57 and 58: course designer for their PBX syste
Page 59 and 60: Ocito en Flor by Claudia Martinez A

2008 - Glendale Community College

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