12.07.2013 Views

Issue #35 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

Issue #35 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

Issue #35 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

SHOW MORE
SHOW LESS

Transform your PDFs into Flipbooks and boost your revenue!

Leverage SEO-optimized Flipbooks, powerful backlinks, and multimedia content to professionally showcase your products and significantly increase your reach.

O C6<br />

o. 5"<br />

(/> 5<br />

c *<br />

3 £"<br />

U)<br />

03 O<br />

- -*- - a-<br />

O (I)<br />

a"<br />

©<br />

FEATURING:<br />

Elizabeth McCracken<br />

Nan Goidin<br />

Nicole Eisenman<br />

Linda Pastan<br />

Lucie Brock-Broido<br />

Nick Flynn<br />

Kara Walker<br />

& an Interview with George Saunders<br />

O<br />

3-<br />

CD<br />

3<br />

3 ST<br />

ft '^'<br />

O<br />

§;<br />

3<br />

3<br />

3<br />

3<br />

3 5 2 ? 00 5.<br />

(I)<br />

(A<br />

N<br />

(t><br />

(A<br />

3T<br />

N<br />

3<br />

CD


COLUMBIA<br />

A <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Literature</strong> & <strong>Art</strong>


Poetry Editors<br />

MONICA FERRELL<br />

RICHARD MATTHEWS<br />

Assistant Editor<br />

ROBIN SCHAER<br />

Editor-in-Chief<br />

RANGI MCNEIL<br />

Production/Copy/Layout Editor<br />

MEREDITH HINSHAW<br />

<strong>Art</strong> Editor<br />

TOM HEALY<br />

Prose Editors<br />

MEREDITH HINSHAW<br />

SCOTT SNYDER<br />

Assistant Poetry Editor<br />

AMANDA TURNER<br />

Assistant Prose Editors<br />

MANUEL GONZALES, JULIA HOLMES, CHRISTOPHER SWETALA<br />

Poetry Board<br />

JANE CARR, TIFFANY FUNG, RUTH LEVINE, LAUREL MAURY, RYAN MURPHY,<br />

JODIE REYES, ROBIN BETH SCHAER, BOB SWIGERT, JOEL WHITNEY<br />

Prose Board<br />

JANE CARR, KIRSTEN DENKER, HILLERY HUGG, MICHELLE MAISTO,<br />

MARTHA SCHULMAN, AMY SHEPHERD<br />

COLUMBIA: A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND ART is a not-for-pr<strong>of</strong>it literary journal<br />

committed to publishing fiction, poetry, nonfiction, <strong>and</strong> visual art by new <strong>and</strong><br />

established writers <strong>and</strong> artists. COLUMBIA is edited <strong>and</strong> produced annually by students in<br />

the Graduate Writing Division <strong>of</strong> <strong>Columbia</strong> University's School <strong>of</strong> the <strong>Art</strong>s <strong>and</strong> is<br />

published at 2960 Broadway, Room 415 Dodge Hall, <strong>Columbia</strong> University,<br />

New York, NY, 10027-6902. Contact the editors at (212) 854-4216, or e-mail us<br />

at arts-litjournal@>columbia.edu. Visit our web site at:<br />

http://www.columbia.edu/cu/arts/writing/columbiajournal/index.html<br />

COLUMBIA welcomes submissions <strong>of</strong> poetry, fiction, nonfiction, <strong>and</strong> art. We read<br />

manuscripts from August 1 through December 1 <strong>and</strong> generally respond within<br />

three to four months. Manuscripts without SASE will not be returned. No e-mail<br />

submissions, please. Visit our website for submission guidelines, contest information<br />

<strong>and</strong> upcoming themes.<br />

COLUMBIA: A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND ART is indexed in American<br />

Humanities Index (Whitson Publishing Company). National distributors to retail<br />

trade: Ingram Periodicals (La Vergne, TN); Bernhard DeBoer (Nutley, NJ);<br />

Ubiquity Distribution, Inc. (Brooklyn, NY).<br />

1 2001 COLUMBIA: A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND ART<br />

Damage is recomposed Fate.<br />

—LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO


The Editors would like to thank those who made this issue possible.<br />

For Financial Support:<br />

THE MARSTRAND FOUNDATION<br />

NEW YORK STATE COUNCIL ON THE ARTS<br />

COLUMBIA SCHOOL OF THE ARTS WRITING DIVISION<br />

For Advisement <strong>and</strong> Technical <strong>and</strong> Creative Support:<br />

ANNA DELMORO<br />

RITA GATLIN<br />

RICHARD LOCKE<br />

JOHN MALONEY<br />

BEN MARCUS<br />

ERICA MARKS<br />

LAURA MCLAUGHLIN<br />

KEVIN NEWMAN<br />

ALICE OUINN<br />

RON SHEY<br />

DEENA SUH<br />

LISA THOMAS<br />

ALAN ZIEGLER<br />

For Cover Design:<br />

JEANNIE SERVAAS<br />

For Cover Font, Donut Face.<br />

ALEX LIN<br />

SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION:<br />

Annual subscriptions are available for $9. Biannual subscriptions (two issues) are<br />

available for $18. International subscriptions add $5 per year.<br />

SUPPORT COLUMBIA:<br />

We invite you to support fine literature, encourage fresh voices, <strong>and</strong> help us continue<br />

to grow. We rely on the generous support <strong>of</strong> people like you.<br />

BECOME A MEMBER<br />

For $50, Members receive an annual subscription to COLUMBIA.<br />

BECOME AN ASSOCIATE<br />

For $75, Associates receive a two-year subscription to COLUMBIA.<br />

BECOME A PATRON<br />

For $100 or more, Patrons recieve a two-year<br />

subscription to COLUMBIA <strong>and</strong> have their name listed in the journal.<br />

Please make donations to <strong>Columbia</strong>: A <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Literature</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Art</strong> payable to<br />

<strong>Columbia</strong> University, with "<strong>Columbia</strong> <strong>Journal</strong>" indicated in the memo space <strong>of</strong><br />

the check. ALL DONATIONS ARE TAX-DEDUCTIBLE.<br />

Dear Readers:<br />

21 May 2001<br />

Welcome to <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>#35</strong>. Those <strong>of</strong> you who have followed the<br />

progress <strong>of</strong> COLUMBIA will no doubt notice our recent changes.<br />

After much deliberation, our editorial staff decided to change the<br />

magazine's production schedule. COLUMBIA will now appear<br />

annually instead <strong>of</strong> biannually, our rationale being that one stellar<br />

issue trumps two good issues. Likewise, we have continued to<br />

improve the caliber <strong>of</strong> our artwork. This issue represents our first<br />

foray into the world <strong>of</strong> the established visual artist. We thank all<br />

<strong>of</strong> the people who helped to make this transition a reality.<br />

On a less pleasant note, I would like to dedicate <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>#35</strong> to the<br />

memory <strong>of</strong> Jacob Peter Waletsky. Jacob, a graduate student <strong>and</strong><br />

classmate in <strong>Columbia</strong>'s Writing Division, died in May 2001. The<br />

loss <strong>of</strong> his artistic voice <strong>and</strong> vision is a tragedy.<br />

I'd like to end by thanking my staff. I cannot take credit for what<br />

I believe to be the best issue <strong>of</strong> COLUMBIA that has been produced.<br />

I am grateful for your time, effort, <strong>and</strong> dedication. This<br />

job would have been a lot less fun without you.<br />

Yours—<br />

Rangi McNeil<br />

Editor-in-Chief


TABLE OF CONTENTS<br />

IO II 12 13 14 15 l6 17 18<br />

1 —


13° I3 1 132 133 134 135 i36 137 138 139<br />

Glenn Horton (con't) The Fudge Jungle<br />

MIKE ALBO MIKE ALBO<br />

140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149<br />

Lanolin • Essay on Libido • Movies<br />

Ending by the Sea<br />

WAYNE KOESTENBAUM<br />

My Husb<strong>and</strong>'s Skin<br />

KERRY HANLON<br />

150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159<br />

162<br />

ART: BILL JACOBSON<br />

163 164 165<br />

KARA WALKER<br />

Rules <strong>of</strong> Knockabout Comedians<br />

ELIZABETH MCCRACKEN<br />

166 167 168 169<br />

JOHN HALLOCK<br />

TOM SACHS<br />

170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179<br />

NICOLE EISENMAN RICHARD BARNES NAYLAND BLAKE STEPHEN BARKER SARAH LUCAS<br />

180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189<br />

LAYLAH ALI<br />

JACK PIERSON<br />

DAVID BUNN<br />

190 191 192 ^ffl 194 195 196 197 198 199<br />

Exegesis: A World Gone Awry<br />

SHIRINNESHAT BILL JACOBSON R. FLOWERS RIVERA<br />

2OO 2OI 2O2 203 204 205 206 207<br />

Deep in the Shade <strong>of</strong> Paradise<br />

JOHN DUFRESNE<br />

Ars Poetica •<br />

Riding the Bull<br />

TIMOTHY LIU<br />

2O8 209<br />

Gulls<br />

JAMES LEWISOH<br />

210 211 212 213 214 215 2l6 217 2l8 219<br />

Guernica • The Call • How the Breck Girl Came to Be • The Wedding <strong>of</strong> the Breck Girl<br />

Basketball PAUL MALISZWESKI<br />

JAMES LEWISOHN<br />

22O 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229<br />

The Mermaid <strong>of</strong> Sag<br />

The Poppies • JOHN SUROWIECKI Seven Object<br />

The End <strong>of</strong> die Wine-Harvest >—,—' Portrait <strong>of</strong> tl<br />

Translated by Marilyn Hacker Sea Grasses LUCIE BROC<br />

HEDI KADDOUR ELIZABETH FROST<br />

230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239<br />

T " CONTRIBUTORS' NOTES<br />

KARL HAENDEL<br />

240 241 242 243<br />

-~*H


Is ,>"'?•<br />

"4'<br />

The Menhaden Swims Along The East Coast <strong>of</strong> America.<br />

Karl Haendel, Untitled(2001), Pencil on p


12<br />

—NICK FLYNN<br />

Drones<br />

Attendants tend the queen, nurses<br />

the worm, we roam<br />

the brood, sicken ourselves on honey<br />

we did nothing to produce. Foragers<br />

return with more, we rub against<br />

their sexless bodies, taste<br />

where they've been, this slow<br />

transfer, this outside<br />

to in. A virgin grows in a guarded<br />

cell, ripening on<br />

rare jelly, we wait for her<br />

to chew her way out, we are made<br />

<strong>of</strong> waiting. First she will seek<br />

the other virgins, those<br />

unborn, a spike<br />

to the head, then lead us into a cloud<br />

& take us in the air. Spacious<br />

inside her, a piece <strong>of</strong> each breaks <strong>of</strong>f<br />

to pump forever there. We<br />

wait. The workers<br />

despise us, they would smother us all<br />

if not for her.


Blind Huber<br />

Drunk on lilacs<br />

in the garden I will never see, I wonder about<br />

the queen, her mystery. My assistant<br />

seizes the whole bees <strong>of</strong> both hives<br />

searching her out. On the second<br />

<strong>of</strong> July, the weather<br />

being very fine, numbers <strong>of</strong> males left,<br />

& we set at liberty a young virgin<br />

Mere sound mere<br />

sensation, I put my mouth to the hive<br />

to soothe them, promise<br />

their queen will return, though it's not up to me. Each<br />

morning, before the dew lifts, they cover<br />

my head, a statue studded with jewels. The queen<br />

has the answer. What are they doing now? I ask.<br />

Crawling over each other,<br />

walking in circles, Burnens replies.<br />

—PHILIP RYAN<br />

Bluer Than the Pool<br />

Richard Knox lay on his back in the yard <strong>of</strong> his rented house in<br />

Tarzana. The night before he'd thrown a party <strong>and</strong> his wife Sara was<br />

telling him what a fool he'd made <strong>of</strong> himself.<br />

"Everyone laughed at you. I was laughing at you too. You sang<br />

that song you wrote about the Swiss clinic <strong>and</strong> danced around."<br />

"Now honey, I'm sure you're exaggerating." He lay there seeing<br />

the sunlight red through his eyelids, afraid to look.<br />

"Exaggerating my ass. You were putting your cigarettes out in<br />

the swimming pool. Look at the pool."<br />

He fought his way upwards <strong>and</strong> leaned back on his unstable<br />

arms <strong>and</strong> blinked in the bright sunlight. The pool was full <strong>of</strong> all<br />

kinds <strong>of</strong> debris as if a ship had sunk in it <strong>and</strong> yes, there among the<br />

plastic cups <strong>and</strong> plates <strong>and</strong> bits <strong>of</strong> clothing <strong>and</strong> food <strong>and</strong> beer cans<br />

<strong>and</strong> a bottle <strong>of</strong> gin was a flotilla <strong>of</strong> brown cigarette filters, losing<br />

their casings <strong>and</strong> looking like bloated little sausages.<br />

"I see them. There's too many for it just to have been me."<br />

"Well, everyone saw you doing it so they did it too."<br />

Richard struggled to his feet <strong>and</strong> looked at his wrist but his<br />

watch wasn't there.<br />

"What were we celebrating?"<br />

She stared hard at him from her seat at the table with the<br />

umbrella coming up through it, kicking her crossed leg reflexively.<br />

"You came back from the meeting with Mr. Parker <strong>and</strong> those<br />

people <strong>and</strong> said that you were going to be working with them for<br />

five thous<strong>and</strong> dollars a week. I told you I didn't know why we


16<br />

should throw a party because we already knew that."<br />

"Well, I wanted to be sure." After a minute he said, "It was a<br />

housewarming party."<br />

He looked up at the second-story window <strong>of</strong> the house <strong>and</strong> the<br />

TV antenna on the ro<strong>of</strong>. It was a nice house. Sara said, "Oh, you<br />

know I'm proud <strong>of</strong> you. I don't have to tell you, do I? Why don't<br />

you clean yourself up? You're a mess."<br />

"Sure." He took a few uncertain steps toward the pool <strong>and</strong><br />

looked down at the flotsam in it <strong>and</strong> patted down his clothes<br />

slightly <strong>and</strong> wiped some grass <strong>of</strong>f his shirt. Then he leaned forward<br />

<strong>and</strong> let himself fall in, buckling his body to lessen the impact. He<br />

slapped into the cold water <strong>and</strong> sank gently through it then rose to<br />

the surface.<br />

Richard paddled over to the other side pushing aside a<br />

styr<strong>of</strong>oam cooler <strong>and</strong> dragged himself out. He sat on the coping<br />

with his feet still in <strong>and</strong> ran his h<strong>and</strong>s through his hair.<br />

"That was refreshing," he said.<br />

Sara snorted <strong>and</strong> laughed <strong>and</strong> said, "Jesus Christ." Then the<br />

doorbell rang. She stood <strong>and</strong> walked quickly past her husb<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong><br />

through the sliding doors to get it. "Someone probably dropped<br />

something in the pool they want back," she said. Richard looked<br />

around, blinking chlorine out <strong>of</strong> his eyes. What a no-good bunch <strong>of</strong><br />

bastards to destroy his yard this way. There was a half-uprooted<br />

bush next to the grill <strong>and</strong> chunks <strong>of</strong> upturned mud.<br />

In a minute Sara was back looking scared. "It's Mr. Parker," she<br />

said. Richard struggled up out <strong>of</strong> the pool <strong>and</strong> stood, dripping<br />

obscenely on the concrete. He brushed the water <strong>of</strong>f his arms <strong>and</strong><br />

his thighs but it didn't do any good. There was no way to get<br />

upstairs <strong>and</strong> change without being seen. Despite its cost it was a<br />

small house. He looked at the yard sadly. It was a World War I battlefield,<br />

<strong>and</strong> the pool was a flooded trench.<br />

"I guess bring him back here," Richard said. He stared at the<br />

dark stain appearing on the concrete below him <strong>and</strong> shook his head<br />

vigorously like a dog. After a while Mr. Parker appeared at the sliding<br />

doors in immaculate old-fashioned attire that made him look<br />

like a Gilded Age financier.<br />

"You're dripping wet, Knox," he said, as they shook h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />

"I know it, Mr. Parker. I fell into the pool just now as I was<br />

cleaning it. We had a party last night."<br />

"I can see that. It must have been some party. Your wife told me<br />

you were a drinking man."<br />

"Not really."<br />

"I'll go get some c<strong>of</strong>fee," Sara said, <strong>and</strong> went back inside.<br />

Richard said, "I drink occasionally, but I'm always careful about<br />

how much. Except for—last night." He watched the gin bottle drift<br />

slowly toward the stairs at the other end <strong>of</strong> the pool.<br />

"I can drink too. I'll drink you under the table any day <strong>of</strong> the<br />

week." Mr. Parker glanced up at the sky <strong>and</strong> squinted, baring his<br />

teeth. "I'm kidding, <strong>of</strong> course."<br />

"I won't be drinking again for a long time," Richard said. "I feel<br />

awful. Let's sit down." He guided the old man through the debris<br />

over to the table beneath the umbrella.<br />

They sat, <strong>and</strong> Mr. Parker wiped his wet h<strong>and</strong> on his pant leg<br />

<strong>and</strong> surveyed the yard with distaste. Richard sat shivering, keeping<br />

his eyes on the plastic tabletop.<br />

"It's nice to see you, Mr. Parker. I'm looking forward to<br />

working with you."<br />

"Likewise, <strong>of</strong> course. Nice little place here. Without all the<br />

trash, I mean."<br />

"Yes. Thank you. I was just cleaning up as you came."<br />

"You mentioned that. There's no need to apologize. God knows<br />

I've been in your shoes once or twice myself."<br />

"Right. It's too bad things always get out <strong>of</strong> h<strong>and</strong>. No more<br />

parties. My wife is about to kill me."<br />

"Well, I can't blame her. But you'll make it up to her, I'm sure."<br />

Richard sat politely, waiting.<br />

"You know, it was through your wife that I first heard about<br />

you, Knox."<br />

"Is that right?"<br />

"Yes. We knew each other in New York some years ago when I<br />

was killing myself on Wall Street. I had fun back then. She makes<br />

me feel fifty again." He laughed. "That's a joke. And then we<br />

bumped into each other in Seattle. I was visiting my daughter. She<br />

mentioned you were thinking <strong>of</strong> Hollywood. Your wife, I mean, not


18<br />

my daughter."<br />

"I didn't know that. I knew she knew somebody here but I<br />

didn't know it was you. She never said she knew you."<br />

"Well, she wouldn't. My God, she's a fine girl." They turned<br />

<strong>and</strong> saw her walking out with a tray full <strong>of</strong> cups.<br />

"Yes, she is. I'm glad you think so."<br />

She sat <strong>and</strong> smiled at them <strong>and</strong> put three cups out on the table.<br />

"I was just telling your husb<strong>and</strong> how we used to know each<br />

other in New York."<br />

Sara nodded slowly. "Really? God, that was years ago."<br />

"Yes it was. But he's a fine man <strong>and</strong> I thought we could use him<br />

down here <strong>and</strong> I don't regret asking him to come. Not one bit." Sara<br />

poured the c<strong>of</strong>fee. "We'll put you on this action picture, Knox. A<br />

kung fu sort <strong>of</strong> thing, with an urban element. We're thinking <strong>of</strong> that<br />

basketball player, what's his name, from the Lakers, I think. I forget<br />

his name. Not the big one. It'll come to me. Anyway he comes<br />

pretty cheap these days. But the kids, you know? They love him.<br />

Thank you." He accepted a cup <strong>and</strong> saucer.<br />

Richard brought his cup to his lips as firmly <strong>and</strong> steadily as<br />

possible <strong>and</strong> gave a quick slurp. "A kung fu movie? I thought I was<br />

going to work on my own movie, the war thing. You know, with the<br />

guy in it? Didn't we talk about that yesterday?"<br />

"Right, the war thing. Well, there's been a little bit <strong>of</strong> a change<br />

<strong>of</strong> plan, but I'm sure we can still use you. You're a hell <strong>of</strong> a talent,<br />

I'm sure. I'll bet you could do anything you put your mind to." He<br />

smiled broadly at Richard then swung his head slowly to Sara.<br />

"What are you doing with yourself these days, Sara? Not still in<br />

advertising, you said. Advertising." He seemed to think about that<br />

for a moment. "My God, I love seeing you! What a hell <strong>of</strong> a time<br />

we had, back then. Didn't you have a hell <strong>of</strong> a time too, back then?"<br />

"Yes, New York was great then. I'm doing PR now. Or I was in<br />

Seattle."<br />

"PR! We could use a publicity girl at the studio. We could send<br />

you on trips. Europe, or Japan. I go to Australia myself a lot these<br />

days. God damn it, what a beautiful country. Funny place for marketing<br />

pictures, though. Don't even mention Crocodile Dundee<br />

down there. There's an apartment in Sydney I've been holding onto,<br />

right on the beach. Damn beautiful place. The ocean's bright, bright<br />

blue, you wouldn't believe it. It's bluer than your pool."<br />

Richard looked at the pool, picturing it. After a moment Mr.<br />

Parker said, "Why don't we get dinner some night?"<br />

Richard looked at his wife who was staring at her c<strong>of</strong>fee cup.<br />

She said, "That would be great. We don't know any places here."<br />

"I'll pick some place here in the Valley. You know I used to live<br />

in Burbank?"<br />

"Really?"<br />

"Yes. I can't remember the street name, but it was <strong>of</strong>f the<br />

beaten path, away from all the trash. I couldn't st<strong>and</strong> it though.<br />

Now I'm in the hills here, right above you." He pointed vaguely to<br />

the southwest. "If I had binoculars I probably could have seen the<br />

party here. Or a telescope, maybe." He watched the hills speculatively<br />

then shrugged. "Must have been a hell <strong>of</strong> a party. Quite a<br />

crowd, I guess. Incidentally," he shifted himself around to face<br />

Richard. "You might have invited me last night. I'm not such an old<br />

man that I can't use a little party now <strong>and</strong> then." He winked <strong>and</strong><br />

Richard nodded uncertainly.<br />

"And where are your friends now?" Mr. Parker said. "They leave<br />

you to clean up the mess. Oh! I know all about it, all about it. Anyway,<br />

we'll get to know each other better as time goes on, I don't<br />

doubt. It gets damn dull up in the hills." He looked up at the<br />

speckled underside <strong>of</strong> the umbrella. "You know I'm collecting<br />

parakeets? Bought one from some African isl<strong>and</strong> or other for six<br />

thous<strong>and</strong> dollars. Fellow brought it in a box, half-dead <strong>and</strong> smelling<br />

like old cheese. Not a parakeet, a parrot. I'm collecting parrots<br />

now." He turned back to Sara. "Have you taken a drive in the hills<br />

yet?"<br />

"I haven't really had time. We're not even unpacked."<br />

"No, I guess not. Beautiful up there. Yes it is. Damn beautiful.<br />

I have an <strong>of</strong>fice that looks right out over the Valley. You can see a<br />

thin brown line <strong>of</strong> smog. Looks all right from here though. Lovely<br />

c<strong>of</strong>fee, Sara."<br />

"Thank you, Mr. Parker."<br />

"Please call me John. You know that. My God. You lived with<br />

all those girls in a shoebox by the East River. In those days girls used


20<br />

to make less money, I remember. I don't know if that's still the case."<br />

He frowned at the yard. "You shouldn't have to clean this house up<br />

by yourself, Sara. Do you have a cleaning girl? I've got this<br />

Venezuelan. Tuesday <strong>and</strong> Friday afternoons. No need to worry<br />

about stealing or that sort <strong>of</strong> thing. She can't speak a word <strong>of</strong><br />

English, really, but she's a lovely girl."<br />

Richard finished his cup <strong>and</strong> let out a big shiver. He noticed the<br />

fantastic flatness <strong>of</strong> his yard, the artificial quality <strong>of</strong> it, a movie set<br />

v<strong>and</strong>alized <strong>and</strong> ab<strong>and</strong>oned in a fit <strong>of</strong> childish anger. The bushes<br />

shuddered in a faint breath <strong>of</strong> wind.<br />

Mr. Parker squinted at him. "I feel ridiculous talking to a dripping<br />

wet man. It's as if you've just been rescued from a flood. Hmm.<br />

It's a beautiful day, though. And they're not all lovely here, really.<br />

Do you like boats?"<br />

"Me?" Richard said.<br />

"Yes, you. Both <strong>of</strong> you."<br />

Richard said, "Sure, I guess so. Do you like them, honey?"<br />

Sara shrugged <strong>and</strong> her eyes flicked up at him <strong>and</strong> back at her<br />

cup. "You know I do. We went sailing about a million times in Seattle."<br />

"You both like boats?" Mr. Parker fidgeted in his seat <strong>and</strong> stood<br />

slightly then sat back down. "I've got a boat out in Malibu someplace.<br />

A yacht, really. Not much <strong>of</strong> a thing. Fun though. I'll take<br />

you out on it. Has some clever name my daughter gave it. Escapes<br />

me at the moment. We can go out to the isl<strong>and</strong>s. We'll bring a<br />

whole crate <strong>of</strong> liquor. Then we'll see who can drink." He reached<br />

out to punch Richard playfully but quickly pulled his h<strong>and</strong> back<br />

because his target was wet <strong>and</strong> holding himself shivering like an<br />

autistic child. "For God's sake, put some dry clothes on, man. You'll<br />

catch your death. It's not really summer all year round out here.<br />

Gets cold as hell, up in the hills. And the winds can really get you.<br />

Blow your car right <strong>of</strong>f the road in those mountain passes."<br />

Richard stood up still holding his c<strong>of</strong>fee cup. "I guess I'll go<br />

change." Mr. Parker nodded <strong>and</strong> started talking again <strong>and</strong> shifted<br />

his chair. Richard walked to the pool's step <strong>and</strong> reached down for<br />

the gin bottle. His foot slipped <strong>and</strong> he fell down two <strong>of</strong> the steps,<br />

so the water was up his knee. The c<strong>of</strong>fee mug cracked in his fist on<br />

the concrete into two clean pieces <strong>and</strong> the gin bottle, disturbed by<br />

the waves, bobbed gently away. Richard balanced on the broken cup<br />

a moment then extended his leg <strong>and</strong> grabbed the bottle <strong>and</strong> pulled<br />

his dripping leg out. He bent down <strong>and</strong> scooped up the c<strong>of</strong>fee cup<br />

halves. He looked at his wife <strong>and</strong> Mr. Parker across the desolation<br />

<strong>of</strong> the yard.<br />

"You ought to hire a pool cleaner to clean that thing," Mr.<br />

Parker said. "That thing will take all day."<br />

"Are you ok, Richie?" his wife called.<br />

He nodded <strong>and</strong> waved his h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> looked at the pool with its<br />

damning testimony <strong>of</strong> the night before. It was the wreckage <strong>of</strong> the<br />

Japanese fleet at Midway. He watched a bag <strong>of</strong> potatoes chips bump<br />

stubbornly into the other end <strong>of</strong> the pool. How would the kung fu<br />

fit in? An American GI in a Japanese POW camp learns karate <strong>and</strong><br />

wins his freedom, learns some valuable cultural lessons, <strong>and</strong> defends<br />

his country's honor in a tournament to the death. Or possibly just<br />

to unconsciousness. He stood <strong>and</strong> headed inside with his broken<br />

cup <strong>and</strong> his bottle held tightly by a dripping h<strong>and</strong>.<br />

He put the gin bottle with the recycling then dropped the c<strong>of</strong>fee<br />

cup in the trash. He walked upstairs trailing water on the gray<br />

carpet. His pant legs whipped sullenly together. He undressed <strong>and</strong><br />

threw his wet clothes in the bathtub <strong>and</strong> rubbed a towel over himself<br />

quickly, then stood changing into dry clothes by the window,<br />

watching Mr. Parker laugh exaggeratedly at some joke <strong>of</strong> his wife's.<br />

They were a father <strong>and</strong> daughter discussing her husb<strong>and</strong>, who was<br />

learning kung fu in a POW camp. Shadows reached out to them<br />

from the corner <strong>of</strong> the yard. Above them beyond the mile <strong>of</strong> uniform<br />

ro<strong>of</strong>tops the dark hills glowered in a khaki haze.


22<br />

D. NURKSE<br />

Honeymoon in Varia<br />

We woke at dawn<br />

envying our shadows<br />

their chance to return.<br />

We were beyond our depth<br />

in happiness.<br />

We had become the same person<br />

but with a mind <strong>of</strong> her own.<br />

In the next room<br />

two lovers were dressing,<br />

stumbling, quarrelling—<br />

to make it easier to part?<br />

The walls were so thin!<br />

Varia: sleepy town<br />

between the wheat <strong>and</strong> the desert.<br />

Plaza, two sparrows, dusty fountain.<br />

Distant mountains<br />

or perhaps just clouds—<br />

<strong>and</strong> we still sorting our clothes<br />

jumbled on the wicker chair:<br />

yours ... yours ... yours ...<br />

That room was so tiny<br />

..u: »«..,u«J ..„<br />

Anonymous Medieval Spanish Lyric Fragments<br />

1<br />

What do you want from me, gentle knight?<br />

I'm married, I have a husb<strong>and</strong>.<br />

I'm married according to my station<br />

with a most reputable knight<br />

<strong>of</strong> good disposition <strong>and</strong> schooling,<br />

whom I love more than I love myself.<br />

I'm married, I have a husb<strong>and</strong>.<br />

I'm married, good luck to me,<br />

but I'm no stranger to sadness—<br />

once I made a mistake so crazy<br />

I keep taking it out on myself.<br />

I'm married, I have a husb<strong>and</strong>.<br />

Knight at arms, when you enter<br />

the King's palace<br />

don't look at me first—<br />

they'll know how much I want you.<br />

Just glance around casually.


Sweet love, don't complain,<br />

this is just the first night.<br />

Knight, I saw you riding<br />

hard from the borderl<strong>and</strong><strong>and</strong><br />

all that night<br />

you let me sleep.<br />

The girl was hitting her skirt:<br />

Little skirt, don't tell anyone.<br />

5<br />

Comb your long hair<br />

in the lit window<br />

since I have<br />

no other paradise.<br />

—ELIZABETH MCCRACKEN<br />

The Womanless Wedding<br />

Nobody seemed to think it was odd, the businessmen <strong>of</strong> Valley<br />

Junction, Iowa, volunteering to put on a burlesque show, half <strong>of</strong><br />

them dressed as women. It was the kind <strong>of</strong> thing that groups <strong>of</strong><br />

men—Elks, Odd Fellows, Masons, any gang <strong>of</strong> men who could talk<br />

each other into dumb stunts for charity—were putting on in the<br />

mid-1920s. Tom Thumb weddings, where they dressed up kids as<br />

grown-ups <strong>and</strong> married them <strong>of</strong>f, were getting a little old. Why not<br />

dress up men instead?<br />

Harvey Novak, who ran the dimestore, was going to be the<br />

bride, partly because he'd make such a bad woman. Novak was six<br />

feet tall, <strong>and</strong> had a back so hairy you could see it through the thin<br />

fabric <strong>of</strong> his dress shirts, curling over his undershirt. That was the<br />

point. If you were a big man you got to play a woman; if you were<br />

small, you'd be your own thin self, your eyebrows augmented with<br />

greasepaint, your mouth obscured by a false mustache. Chances are<br />

you'd be picked up by one <strong>of</strong> the larger men <strong>and</strong> carted around<br />

stage, like a doll. In other words, if you were big, you'd make a fool<br />

<strong>of</strong> yourself, <strong>and</strong> if you were small, someone would make a fool out<br />

<strong>of</strong> you.<br />

And I wanted a part.<br />

Not immediately. My favorite sister—I had six—had died two<br />

years before. Hattie <strong>and</strong> I had planned to go into vaudeville together;<br />

after her death, I'd sworn <strong>of</strong>f the theater <strong>and</strong> devoted myself to my<br />

father's store, Sharp's Gents' Furnishings <strong>of</strong> West Des Moines. Still,<br />

I hadn't stopped imagining myself on stage. Before she'd died, when


26<br />

we'd been a team, it wasn't so much a dream as a plan: we would go<br />

on stage together. All I thought—all I knew, if you'd asked me<br />

then—is that some day I would in fact be a performer. (A dancer, I<br />

would have said if you pressed me, <strong>and</strong> believe me, in my dreams<br />

you always pressed me.) After Hattie died, I thought <strong>of</strong> myself on<br />

stage constantly, just not literally. Folding the pants Ed Dubuque,<br />

my father's assistant, had shown a customer. Walking to school, <strong>and</strong><br />

back. A dramatic young man, in other words, walking through the<br />

streets <strong>of</strong> a dramatic city. Before, people watched at the moment I<br />

came all the way downstage, the shadows on my face evaporating<br />

with the footlights' nearness; after, always. Before, the audience paid<br />

money to see me. After, they conspired to get some glimpse.<br />

I don't know which fantasy made me more foolish.<br />

As I saw it, the problem was that the Womanless Wedding<br />

would be a botch without my advice. Nobody but me, I was sure,<br />

would know how to make it really funny. You had to play this kind<br />

<strong>of</strong> thing serious as Shakespeare. You had to get your timing just<br />

right. I asked my father permission to sign up, sure he'd refuse. He<br />

didn't.<br />

"It's good to know the men," he said. "Good for future<br />

business. Maybe I'll take a role too, make my theatrical debut."<br />

"Really?"<br />

He laughed. "No. It's all nonsense. You want to be part <strong>of</strong> nonsense?<br />

Go ahead."<br />

So I went to the dimestore <strong>and</strong> asked Harvey Novak. He was<br />

on one <strong>of</strong> the store's sliding ladders, arranging stock. I stood on the<br />

ground like Romeo <strong>and</strong> pled my case.<br />

"Huh," he said, looking down. "Well, mostly we're cast. You<br />

can be a guest, though. You got a seersucker suit?"<br />

"I was hoping to be a bridesmaid," I said. It was the men turned<br />

women who'd get the big laughs. Harvey Novak went up a step. If<br />

he'd been wearing his wedding dress, I would have seen his garters.<br />

"Those parts are taken, Sharp. We're in rehearsals already. Like<br />

I said, you come up with a seersucker suit, maybe a boater, we can<br />

find a spot for you. Your old man carries those, right?" Maybe h^e<br />

just refused out <strong>of</strong> deference to my father, who even Harvey Novak<br />

respected. Nobody in town would want to be the one who zipped<br />

Old Man Sharp's only son into a dress.<br />

"If you really want," Novak said, pointing at me with a c<strong>of</strong>fee<br />

cup he'd found on the top shelf, "you can be a baby. I think we got<br />

a christening gown in your size. Or blackface, if you want. I mean,<br />

look at you, you're halfway to colored already."<br />

"Oh," I said. "No. Thanks."<br />

Hattie had always hated minstrel stuff, <strong>and</strong> I agreed: I hated<br />

how white men in blackface looked, their faces like shallow dirty<br />

pools. Even their ears were filled with greasepaint. Worse, they all<br />

did impressions <strong>of</strong> Al Jolson, copied from records <strong>and</strong> radio (this<br />

was 1926, the year before they could see that voice come out <strong>of</strong> that<br />

face in The Jazz Singer), <strong>and</strong> I hated Al Jolson. The greatest entertainer<br />

<strong>of</strong> all time? As far as I was concerned, he was a donkey in<br />

trousers, braying <strong>and</strong> wheedling. No christening gown, either. I still<br />

had dreams <strong>of</strong> my mother's babies, the lost babies my oldest sister<br />

sometimes talked about. They crept into my dreams at night,<br />

already as big as the businessmen <strong>of</strong> Valley Junction. They spoke in<br />

horrible voices that, now that I stopped to think about it, sounded<br />

an awful lot like Al Jolson.<br />

"Okay," I told Novak from my lowly position. "I'll get a suit."<br />

Novak's bridegroom was Islington, the banker, who'd probably<br />

been cast because he looked the part. He was famous in town for his<br />

high silk hats, which he wore everywhere, even in his garden. Islington's<br />

wife, Lily, was nearly as tall <strong>and</strong> broad as Harvey Novak, <strong>and</strong> a<br />

banker herself. Islington always had a clutch <strong>of</strong> pennies that he<br />

poured from palm to palm, <strong>and</strong> Lily Islington was prone to<br />

impromptu lectures on the beauty <strong>of</strong> dimes. How could you not<br />

love coins? She'd hold a dime up, <strong>and</strong> point to the portrait <strong>of</strong> liberty,<br />

the only work <strong>of</strong> art, she said, that all men could own. And Islington<br />

would applaud his wife by pouring his pennies a little faster.<br />

"I'm marrying for money," said Harvey Novak. "My mother<br />

says I'll learn to love him."<br />

I went to a couple <strong>of</strong> rehearsals at the Oddfellows' Lodge<br />

auditorium. I was the only one already in costume, <strong>and</strong> a lot <strong>of</strong> the<br />

cast members—if that's what you could call them—didn't bother to<br />

come. They (like me) didn't have speaking parts, so what would


28<br />

they have practiced? That left a gang <strong>of</strong> men in shirt sleeves,<br />

declaring their love for each other in bored but boisterous voices.<br />

They hit each other with imaginary fans. Harvey Novak had stuffed<br />

his front with some balled-up rags.<br />

The jokes were awful. Mostly they ran along the lines <strong>of</strong> puns<br />

that weren't even puns, references to unruly matrimony <strong>and</strong> a dowry<br />

<strong>of</strong> "ten parsnips <strong>and</strong> an antebellum toothbrush." The toothbrush<br />

wasn't the only thing that was antebellum. Novak asked to inspect<br />

costumes, dresses cast <strong>of</strong>f by wives, too seedy even for the rag-bag,<br />

too out-<strong>of</strong>-date for the poor. The only impressive thing was the<br />

wedding gown, which hung from a mirror backstage. I couldn't<br />

imagine whose it was. I thought women were supposed to be sentimental<br />

about such things. My father's training was not for nothing:<br />

you were supposed to respect good clothing, which came into the<br />

world with high expectations. Can't you stop this? Aren't you better?<br />

They're making fun <strong>of</strong> me, the dress seemed to say.<br />

By the end <strong>of</strong> the evening, I'd had enough. I found Harvey<br />

Novak, whose counterfeit bustline was now a lump kept up by his<br />

belt.<br />

"You know," I said, "I think I have to resign. The store's busy.<br />

You underst<strong>and</strong>."<br />

"Sharp, I thought you were a trooper!" bellowed Novak.<br />

"Me, too," I said. "Guess I'm not cut out for show business<br />

after all."<br />

I had a plan. I had one <strong>of</strong> Hattie's old dresses, which had made<br />

its way into the costume trunk. For the past two years, I'd kept it in<br />

my closet; now I looked it over: green silk, embroidered with pink<br />

flowers. She'd been bigger than I was, <strong>and</strong> the dress had been old<br />

when she died, which is why the dress had been in the trunk in the<br />

first place. I turned it over in my h<strong>and</strong>s, trying to figure it out. I<br />

wanted not a costume but a disguise. This year's fashions were perfect<br />

for a man who wanted to look like a woman, because they made<br />

women look like boys: no bustline, no waist, no hips. I pinned the<br />

sides <strong>and</strong> cut <strong>of</strong>f the bottom. I folded the dress so the darts<br />

wouldn't show. Lately I'd been helping with the alterations at the<br />

store. I did fine work. The silk was stiff, could still pass for chic,<br />

especially if its wearer were a stylish farm girl, <strong>and</strong> that was my aim.<br />

Alone in my room, I worked on my face. None <strong>of</strong> my sisters<br />

wore makeup (though Annie had once accused Rose <strong>of</strong> the crime <strong>of</strong><br />

rouge), so I'd filched some from backstage <strong>of</strong> the Oddfellows. I'd<br />

decided: I did not want to look like a woman from The Womanless<br />

Wedding; I wanted to pass as a woman from the woman-filled<br />

world. I had those overripe lips, which I covered with some woman's<br />

greasy ab<strong>and</strong>oned lipstick in Poppy Pink. Whose was it? A wife?<br />

What Valley Junction wife painted herself? A daughter, maybe. One<br />

<strong>of</strong> my classmates, who'd thought her father didn't know what she<br />

wore to go to the downtown ballrooms. Poppy Pink suited me. I<br />

used a stick to try to get a cupid's bow, but with my lips it was hopeless.<br />

I tried to tone my skin down a bit with powder from an old<br />

compact, but it didn't do much good. I was worried my dark skin<br />

would give me away. "I am Maria," I said to my reflection. "I am<br />

visiting from Italy."<br />

Then I stepped away from the mirror <strong>and</strong> into the pinned dress,<br />

<strong>and</strong> a pair <strong>of</strong> Annie's stockings (I wished that Sharp's stocked<br />

women's things), <strong>and</strong> a pair <strong>of</strong> shoes from the costume trunk. I<br />

remembered my mother instructing her older daughters: get your<br />

hair <strong>and</strong> face ready before you dress. I held still, for a minute. When<br />

I turn around, I'll see a strange girl.<br />

At first I was disappointed: all I saw in the mirror was myself, a<br />

halo <strong>of</strong> makeup <strong>and</strong> pink flowers around old Mose Sharp.<br />

But I must have been looking for myself in there, even though<br />

I thought I wasn't, because all <strong>of</strong> a sudden I did see her. A strange<br />

girl. Not the prettiest in the world, but I'd do, I'd do.<br />

I'd hoped I'd look like Hattie, but I didn't.<br />

I walked a bit in the shoes, which were too long <strong>and</strong> too<br />

narrow. I sat down. Some boys would have to be schooled in such<br />

things, but I was a well-bred kid who'd been brought up with girls.<br />

I was familiar, in others words, with the phenomenon. I knew not<br />

to laugh loudly, or sit with my knees apart, or say rude things. Even<br />

as a boy I didn't do these things. The fact was, I said little, ever,<br />

especially since Hattie's fall, <strong>and</strong> so I planned my life as a girl to be<br />

a silent one. I could manage that, I knew, from my old life.


I went home when the store closed, planning to come back to<br />

dress in the stockroom. At dinner time, my father said, "This nonsense.<br />

You want to go tonight?"<br />

"What nonsense?" I asked.<br />

What other nonsense was there? My father <strong>and</strong> Rose <strong>and</strong> Annie<br />

were going to attend The Womanless Wedding.<br />

If I hadn't practiced, I might have lost hope. As it was, I had to<br />

walk Railroad Avenue several times dressed as only myself to work<br />

up the courage. "No," I had said to my father, "I think I'll see a<br />

movie in Des Moines." He shrugged.<br />

What would I say if they noticed me?<br />

Now I think, Well who cares? My family would have thought I<br />

was odd, taking a part in the town pageant without telling anyone,<br />

but that wasn't the oddest thing I could do. Youth turns the dullest<br />

facts into a kind <strong>of</strong> delicious shame. I had in those days no real bad<br />

habits, not cigarettes or drink or bad girls. Not even good girls. At<br />

worst I was overproud <strong>of</strong> certain things: my own thoughts <strong>and</strong><br />

talents, the tweed suits that Ed chose for me. Perhaps I thought I<br />

loved that green silk dress too much, <strong>and</strong> my love for it meant someone—my<br />

father, Harvey Novak, Annie with her strict ideas <strong>of</strong> bad<br />

luck concerning the dead—-would take it away. At seventeen, I<br />

believed that anything I loved would be taken from me. I believe<br />

that still: I just no longer think it's personal.<br />

I knew that Annie might recognize the dress, <strong>and</strong> that she<br />

would not approve. Probably none <strong>of</strong> them would. At the store, I<br />

tried picking out the pink flowers from the green silk, but there<br />

were too many <strong>of</strong> them. Instead, I loosened the gathers <strong>of</strong> the drop<br />

waist, cut more <strong>of</strong>f from the bottom <strong>and</strong> made a foolish sash from<br />

the extra material. I tried to remember how old Hattie was when she<br />

owned this dress. She'd worn it to the State Fair, I remembered that<br />

much. We'd gone together. The only thing in the world she was<br />

frightened <strong>of</strong> was hogs-—they were always bigger <strong>and</strong> meaner looking<br />

than she thought they should be—<strong>and</strong> so we steered clear <strong>of</strong> the<br />

livestock buildings <strong>and</strong> walked the midway instead. We watched a<br />

sword swallower. "It's a trick," I said, <strong>and</strong> she said, "It's not. That's<br />

the amazing thing. If he coughs, he'll die." I later met a sword swal-<br />

lower with allergies who said this was true, who always drank<br />

whiskey in the spring as a cough suppressant.<br />

For the first time it struck me how strange it was, to have this<br />

dress around, <strong>and</strong> no Hattie to put into it. Teenage girls were supposed<br />

to last longer than their clothing.<br />

But she'd want me to do this. I suddenly believed this. A stunt.<br />

My best stunt. My debut. I put on a slip I'd stolen from the<br />

laundry, because I was a modest girl. I pulled the dress on. Then I<br />

realized I'd forgotten to make up. In the mirror I was just a skinny<br />

kid in somebody's old dress. I limped around the stockroom, like<br />

Sarah Bernhardt, an old woman pretending to be a young boy. I<br />

could hear Hattie's voice informing Annie that it used to be all<br />

women's parts were played by men, even Lady MacBeth.<br />

I powdered my face. I put on my lipstick. I curled my hair.<br />

Nothing had prepared me for the spectacle on the Odd Fellow's<br />

Lodge stage. I stood in the wings <strong>and</strong> watched as men who had only<br />

ever shook h<strong>and</strong>s with each other embraced, danced. Many <strong>of</strong> them<br />

hadn't even shaken h<strong>and</strong>s with each other: you shook h<strong>and</strong>s with<br />

customers, not other businessmen. Thirty-five <strong>of</strong> them wore<br />

dresses, thirty-five wore suits, five were dressed as babies, <strong>and</strong> five<br />

wore blackface <strong>and</strong> clothing so odd <strong>and</strong> meaningless you couldn't<br />

tell which sex they'd meant to be, as though if you were black it<br />

didn't matter.<br />

They were departing from the script. Well, they had to. I'd seen<br />

it: it was only six pages long. Green, who ran the tavern, had been<br />

given a cymbal on a string which he whacked at r<strong>and</strong>om, like t-tshaw!<br />

was the punchline to every good joke. There was Bud Maynard<br />

the dentist, in blackface, using the neck <strong>of</strong> his banjo as a lever<br />

to lift skirts <strong>of</strong> all the befrocked guests, displaying a great deal <strong>of</strong><br />

underwear supplied by Sharp's Gents. Then he went after one <strong>of</strong> the<br />

flower girls, leering. Who was that flower girl? Oh, the lovely legs.<br />

It was Abbott the pharmacist, but I didn't think he was wearing<br />

stockings: his legs shone in the lights. And there came Maynard's<br />

inquisitive banjo, <strong>and</strong> what he revealed beneath Maynard's skirts<br />

was only what the Lord God himself had supplied.<br />

Okay, Mose, I told myself. Look sharp, Sharp. Any moment


now. I'd deliberately arrived after curtain, because I'd figure that<br />

would make joining the crowd on stage easier, but I couldn't<br />

imagine it being any harder. The wings were deserted. I stuck one<br />

foot past the curtain. Be a man, I said to myself, <strong>and</strong> then realized<br />

this was probably bad advice. But I said it again, in Harvey Novak's<br />

voice, <strong>and</strong> then suddenly I was in the light: I could feel it reflect <strong>of</strong>f<br />

my lipstick. There had been a brief prologue in which Islington had<br />

proposed to Novak, <strong>and</strong> Novak had lifted the happy fellow clear <strong>of</strong>f<br />

the ground in ecstasy. Now the assembled guests were shaking their<br />

heads in amazement at the beauty <strong>of</strong> the bride.<br />

Keep walking, I said. Stay away from Ed. I didn't see him in the<br />

crowd: eighty people on one smallish stage is a lot <strong>of</strong> people,<br />

especially when half <strong>of</strong> them are big men in petticoats. Somebody<br />

passed me a jug, which I lifted to my lips; somebody else tilted it<br />

from the bottom <strong>and</strong> whiskey ran all over my face <strong>and</strong> Hattie's<br />

dress. And then I realized: every last member <strong>of</strong> the Womanless<br />

Wedding was drunk.<br />

Bud Maynard eyeballed me, <strong>and</strong> then made a beeline. Nobody<br />

was going to remain unmolested on his watch. When he got close<br />

up, though, he frowned <strong>and</strong> licked his teeth, which he had entirely<br />

blacked out, the naughty dentist. His white gloves were smeared<br />

with blackface <strong>and</strong> lipstick, <strong>and</strong> his face looked like a badly frosted<br />

cake, skin showing through the black where he'd scratched himself.<br />

"Girlie," he whispered to me. "Do you know where you are?"<br />

"Course," I growled, as low as I could. I hoped I didn't sound<br />

like a girl impersonating a man impersonating a girl. Chances are I<br />

did look like a real girl, at least by comparison: everyone else's makeup<br />

was twice as thick, rouge in dark blocks. Maynard, satisfied,<br />

flipped up my skirt with his banjo, <strong>and</strong> I tried to stomp away flirtatiously.<br />

How did men walk, come to think <strong>of</strong> it?<br />

The mother-<strong>of</strong>-the-bride had not recovered her shoe, <strong>and</strong><br />

limped terribly. One <strong>of</strong> the babies seemed to have fallen asleep, in—<br />

there he was—Ed Dubuque's frilled lap far stage left. Even from<br />

here, I could tell that Ed was drunk. Somebody had drawn a set <strong>of</strong><br />

greasepaint spectacles on his face, like Bobby Clarke's, except askew,<br />

<strong>and</strong> he patted the baby's big bald head, absent-mindedly pushing<br />

the christening bonnet down over his face. The stage smelled like<br />

liquor <strong>and</strong> eighty men sweating in old silk <strong>and</strong> wool.<br />

Bud Maynard was bad, but it was the women—the men<br />

dressed as women, that is—who were the worst. They behaved so<br />

badly, the businessmen <strong>of</strong> Valley Junction, dressed as women, that<br />

it still makes me blush to think <strong>of</strong> it. They placed their h<strong>and</strong>s upon<br />

their own fraudulent bosoms; with a wrench <strong>of</strong> their shoulders, they<br />

tossed those bosoms into the faces <strong>of</strong> the men dressed as men.<br />

Greasepaint went everywhere, not only on the costumes, but on<br />

streetclothes, on doorknobs, on wives in the audience, eventually, I<br />

imagine, on bed sheets. All the town was pancake tinted <strong>and</strong> blushsmudged<br />

for weeks.<br />

I mean, shouldn't they have been just a little bit shy? Awed,<br />

shamed, to wear their wives' cast-<strong>of</strong>f dresses, to try to duplicate their<br />

wives' voices? I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell whether they thought this<br />

was how women should act, arms slung around the nearest pitiful<br />

pair <strong>of</strong> masculine shoulders.<br />

Their breasts were made <strong>of</strong> old rags, <strong>of</strong> course, <strong>and</strong> harmless.<br />

They were rag dolls with scraps <strong>of</strong> men at their centers. The babies<br />

cried: the fake ones on stage, the actual in the audience. Some <strong>of</strong> the<br />

women in the audience cried, too. They always cried at weddings.<br />

What I would have liked to have seen was just the opposite:<br />

eighty Valley Junction women dressed as men, costumes courtesy <strong>of</strong><br />

Sharp's Gents. I know a little about women, <strong>and</strong> I feel sure they<br />

wouldn't have been any better, but they would have been braver.<br />

They would have taken it seriously. They would have thrown each<br />

other around on stage, into chairs, into each other. They wouldn't<br />

have mimed their kisses. They would have pinched. They would<br />

have leered. I can see my youngest sister, Rose, the sweet sc<strong>and</strong>al <strong>of</strong><br />

a false mustache over her mouth, thinking that it feels like being<br />

kissed by a stranger, except in this case the stranger is also you. I can<br />

see my oldest sister, Annie, <strong>of</strong>fering to fight anyone on the stage,<br />

rolling up her borrowed shirtsleeves to show the muscles <strong>of</strong> her forearms,<br />

as if even those muscles were borrowed, <strong>and</strong> invincible. I can<br />

see my mother in my father's suit, hearing a wailing child in the<br />

audience. She walks to the edge <strong>of</strong> the stage <strong>and</strong> with her thumbs<br />

pulls out her suspenders, like a confidence man. Her hat shades her


34<br />

eyes. She looks wonderful. She looks dangerous.<br />

"Shut that brat up, sister," she says.<br />

Downstage, Harvey Novak declaimed, "My mother won't<br />

approve."<br />

"Oh she won't, will she?" roared Islington, <strong>and</strong> then he took the<br />

mother-<strong>of</strong>-the-bride—this was Clapp, the manager <strong>of</strong> the cement<br />

plant—in his arms, <strong>and</strong> said, "I love your daughter, <strong>and</strong> so I love<br />

you." And so he kissed Clapp. Not really, <strong>of</strong> course; he just bent the<br />

man back.<br />

At the end, everyone on stage posed for a group portrait. Since<br />

I was short <strong>and</strong> by that time brave—it's easy to be brave when you're<br />

the only sober man for blocks around—I stuck myself in the<br />

middle <strong>of</strong> the front row. "Hold still," the photographer said. Then<br />

he said it again, annoyed. A third time. I looked in the audience,<br />

but I couldn't see my family for the lights. What on earth would my<br />

father be thinking? Did it look as bad out there as it did up here?<br />

For this they gave up nutting parties?<br />

Dazzled, I smiled.<br />

Most <strong>of</strong> the cast walked right <strong>of</strong>f the stage into the audience.<br />

There was going to be a party at The Tavern, which <strong>of</strong> course could<br />

not legally sell liquor but did anyhow, some beer <strong>and</strong> plenty <strong>of</strong> Templeton<br />

Whiskey, named after the nearby town that stealthily<br />

distilled it. Downtown Vee Jay would be flooded with men in<br />

dresses, but by now that was old hat.<br />

Only the bride <strong>and</strong> I went backstage. After three nights, the<br />

train <strong>of</strong> the wedding gown was covered in footprints, either those <strong>of</strong><br />

his addlepated groom, or his own—Novak's feet were so large no<br />

dainty slippers would fit him. (Ed Dubuque had told me that they'd<br />

gone to Old Man Soltot <strong>and</strong> inquired as to the cost <strong>of</strong> satin slippers<br />

more than a foot long, but the old man shook his head <strong>and</strong> said it<br />

was impossible, though whether satin slippers that large were<br />

architecturally impossible, or whether he meant he'd never do such<br />

a thing was unclear. Maybe it was like asking for a bungalow that<br />

covered an acre.) Novak's wig had been knocked sideways at some<br />

point. It nearly rested on his shoulder. Giant lips had been painted<br />

over his own meager pair, <strong>and</strong> the lines drawn around his eyes to<br />

make them look bigger had smudged. He looked like Miss<br />

Havisham, drunk but for once in her life in a pretty good mood.<br />

"Sharp," he said to me.<br />

I cocked my head, unsure.<br />

"You're one <strong>of</strong> Jake's girls, right?"<br />

Ah. Not quite found out after all. I couldn't resist. "How are<br />

you, Mr. Novak?" I had the family voice, after all. We all sounded<br />

alike.<br />

"We've met?" said Novak, smiling.<br />

"A few times."<br />

"Of course, <strong>of</strong> course. You must be Hattie."<br />

Not mistaken for Hattie, <strong>of</strong> course, but for the idea <strong>of</strong> Hattie,<br />

by a man who'd forgotten the main fact: she's dead. I felt like a<br />

ghost. It wasn't unpleasant. But maybe Novak remembered, because<br />

he suddenly looked terribly confused. Then I realized I was shaking<br />

my head, sadly. Instead, I smiled a little. Boo.<br />

"Pretty," said Novak. "Not all Jewesses are."<br />

I held my h<strong>and</strong> out in what I hoped was a languid manner.<br />

"May I kiss the bride?"<br />

Harvey Novak nodded coquettishly, like the bride he was, <strong>and</strong><br />

stuck his cheek out. He stumbled; he, too, was drunk. So I leaned<br />

forward <strong>and</strong> kissed him on the cheek, the way I kissed my father,<br />

except a little slower. Novak's gloved h<strong>and</strong> squeezed my bare fingers.<br />

If he'd looked down he would have known no girl had knuckles like<br />

that.<br />

"It's Mose," I said, <strong>and</strong> I kissed Harvey Novak on the mouth.<br />

My first kiss, I thought. I almost laughed, I'd never kissed a real girl<br />

before. Old Harvey Novak, smelling like the perfume <strong>of</strong> his face<br />

powder, a great deal <strong>of</strong> Templeton whiskey, an undertone <strong>of</strong> old<br />

onions: the love <strong>of</strong> my life.<br />

"What's Mose?" Novak murmured, his mouth now done up in<br />

its two shades <strong>of</strong> lipstick. Maybe he thought this strange unmet girl<br />

who claimed to know him was a ghost, come to throw down a curse<br />

in that Sharp kid's name. Maybe he was about to embrace the girl,<br />

to see what a ghost felt like, or a Jewess. If this were a movie, I<br />

would have ripped the wig from my head to reveal myself, so


Harvey Novak could reel back in horror at what he had done. But<br />

it wasn't a movie, <strong>and</strong> I wasn't wearing a wig, <strong>and</strong> I decided that the<br />

best revenge would be knowing for the rest <strong>of</strong> my life that the burly<br />

idiot didn't know a real girl from a fake one.<br />

And so I said, "It's Rose. I'm Rose Sharp, not Hattie."<br />

"Of course," he said. "Little Rose."<br />

I went back to the store to clean up. I had been mistaken not<br />

just for an actual girl, but for Hattie. Not really Hattie, <strong>of</strong> course,<br />

H. Sharp 1908-1924, just some other Hattie. I'd layered her on, but<br />

I didn't know how thick the layer was: whether I'd still be her in the<br />

make-up but not the dress, not the lipstick, not the curled hair. I<br />

looked at myself in the mirror as I cleaned myself <strong>of</strong>f with cold<br />

cream. It was like cleaning a painting to find another painting<br />

underneath, slowly rising to the top <strong>of</strong> the canvas. I missed the first<br />

painting almost instantly.<br />

I scrubbed my face with soap after the cold cream, <strong>and</strong> wished<br />

I had a flashlight to run over my face. I needed to make a clean<br />

getaway. The smeared wash cloth I tucked under my arm to get rid<br />

<strong>of</strong> down the street. The dress <strong>and</strong> slip <strong>and</strong> shoes I stuck in a<br />

crumpled bag to take with me. There was cold cream in my hair,<br />

but it helped comb out the curls.<br />

Back home, Annie <strong>and</strong> Rose <strong>and</strong> my father were sitting in the<br />

parlor.<br />

"You missed," my father said, "quite a spectacle."<br />

"I liked it," said Rose.<br />

My father shook his head, though he looked amused. "Grown<br />

men as babies <strong>and</strong> shvartzes," he said. "Funny, I guess. Funny <strong>and</strong><br />

foolish."<br />

"A waste <strong>of</strong> clothing that should have gone to the poor," said<br />

Annie.<br />

My father said, "The poor have their own problems. They<br />

shouldn't have to dress like that."<br />

"Maybe," I said. "Excuse me." Suddenly I felt like I must have<br />

makeup still on my face. Had Harvey Novak kissed my cheek <strong>and</strong><br />

left his lipstick? Was I careful enough? I went to the kitchen <strong>and</strong><br />

took the small mirror that hung over the stove <strong>of</strong>f the wall. I looked<br />

greasy, but like myself.<br />

Rose followed me into the kitchen. She leaned on the stove <strong>and</strong><br />

said, "I saw you."<br />

Of course. Little Rose. My father <strong>and</strong> Annie wouldn't have<br />

noticed me, because they weren't really looking. Rose, though: she<br />

couldn't help but look for things that were as odd as she was. Not<br />

odd the way the whole rigmarole was odd, a bunch <strong>of</strong> men in<br />

dresses <strong>and</strong> enjoying it because they'd never really felt this strange<br />

before. They were normal people on vacation in the l<strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> the<br />

strange. Every other day, those men stood in that town <strong>of</strong> men <strong>and</strong><br />

talked in their own voices <strong>and</strong> bought whiskey from the tavern in<br />

bottles or glasses <strong>and</strong> paid the bills they owed <strong>and</strong> settled the bills<br />

owed them. For a couple <strong>of</strong> nights, what the heck, they'd get dressed<br />

up <strong>and</strong> act like fools. They'd put on someone else's clothing, but<br />

they didn't become someone else. They were who they'd always<br />

been, businessmen who knew everyone in the audience, businessmen<br />

in dresses <strong>and</strong> christening gowns <strong>and</strong> blackface. Did you believe<br />

hairy Harvey Novak, dressed as a bride? Did you see Peterson as a<br />

big crying baby? Out <strong>of</strong> all <strong>of</strong> them, I was the only real oddball, a<br />

kid who thought he could pass himself <strong>of</strong>f as the genuine article,<br />

<strong>and</strong> only Rose, my rhyme, my baby sister, would have been able to<br />

see. After all, I'd even claimed to be her. Maybe she was just seeing<br />

herself.<br />

Carefully, I said, "You saw me?"<br />

"On stage," said Rose. "You were pretty."<br />

I took her h<strong>and</strong>, the way I'd taken Novak's. "Thanks," I said.<br />

"Thanks, Rose. But listen: it's our secret, right? You didn't tell?"<br />

She shook her head.<br />

"Our secret, Rose," I said. "You underst<strong>and</strong>. Don't tell anyone,<br />

not even Pop."<br />

"Never, never, never," she said, <strong>and</strong> she raised my h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong><br />

kissed it, like a suitor.<br />

Two weeks later, I burned Hattie's dress in a fire that some men<br />

had built out by the railroad tracks. I'd worn it one last time, in a<br />

bigger, better stunt than The Womanless Wedding. I'd dressed<br />

myself <strong>and</strong> boarded a streetcar to downtown Des Moines, <strong>and</strong> went<br />

to the Stamp <strong>and</strong> Photograph gallery, where Hattie had planned to


get her graduation portrait done. I didn't have anything too formal<br />

planned—I would have liked to have sat in a cardboard moon,<br />

maybe. Something foolish, something light. But that would have<br />

taken negotiating with the guy who ran the place, <strong>and</strong> instead I<br />

went into one <strong>of</strong> the coin operated booths <strong>and</strong> got a strip <strong>of</strong> pictures<br />

done. Four little shots <strong>of</strong> my girl self. I even remembered to smile<br />

in one.<br />

The guy in charge saw me as I left.<br />

"For your boyfriend?" he asked, <strong>and</strong> I nodded.<br />

"Lucky guy," he said.<br />

Silk smells like hair burning. The flames were just flame-colored.<br />

I had wanted them stitched with pink flowers.<br />

—NICOLA GARDINI<br />

T.'s letter<br />

His letter had followed me<br />

from city to city<br />

<strong>and</strong> always missed me.<br />

It returned to the sender<br />

who delivered it directly to me<br />

in an unknown town<br />

where we both turned up<br />

on the same day.<br />

I threw it unopened<br />

on a pile <strong>of</strong> rubbish<br />

believing this was the way<br />

to make something end<br />

or last.


ERIC OZAWA<br />

Fish (in 13 sections)<br />

1. Introduction:<br />

A fish. She called me a fish. I have no idea what she meant.<br />

2. Description:<br />

I should say first that we had been fighting: indeed, there had<br />

been a dispute; let us leave it at that. She was hot-tempered, <strong>and</strong> so<br />

when she approached me, her face enlarged <strong>and</strong> enflamed with<br />

tears, I was not overwhelmingly surprised, since, as I said, we had<br />

done this sort <strong>of</strong> thing before. I tried to comfort her <strong>and</strong> put my<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s on her bare shoulders as she beat me. Her h<strong>and</strong>s were open<br />

<strong>and</strong> thumped heavily on my chest. I must admit that I experienced<br />

desire as she hit me—not so much from the violence itself as from<br />

its consequence: the thin strap <strong>of</strong> her dress had fallen from her<br />

shoulder leaving her right breast—my favorite—exposed <strong>and</strong> sweating.<br />

I stared. I may have licked my lips. She did not notice; her eyes<br />

were shut like clams, <strong>and</strong> she was clutching at my hair. I tried to<br />

comfort her: "Come," I said, stroking her hair which, to be<br />

honest, looked angry <strong>and</strong>, worse, smelled strangely—not clean or<br />

feminine, but like Chinese food. Her hair was like very thin lo mein<br />

noodles. In the still air, the smell wavered <strong>and</strong> clung. I felt hungry<br />

for the wrong foods.<br />

And it was at that point that what happened happened. She<br />

pulled herself away from me, throwing <strong>of</strong>f my arms <strong>and</strong> my gaze<br />

from her breast <strong>and</strong> headed full-steam for the door. She turned, her<br />

face flushed <strong>and</strong> drained, her lips clamped so tight that when she<br />

opened them to speak her mouth tore a gash; she turned to me, her<br />

sweaty h<strong>and</strong> fumbling with the door knob <strong>and</strong> said, "You—"she<br />

looked up <strong>and</strong> to her left without focusing; her face was<br />

sour—"You... fish."<br />

3. Detail:<br />

Her pronunciation <strong>of</strong> the word fish. There was a great deal <strong>of</strong><br />

stress on the f As if out <strong>of</strong> fear or embarrassment she needed to<br />

pause before saying the word. A windup. Perhaps she was fumbling.<br />

In her memory the words, farmer, fathead, fungus, fanny, fool, were<br />

all highlighted but not chosen. For some reason the word fish was.<br />

But these are all speculations, what is more certain is the windup.<br />

Like a child saying fuck.<br />

4. Correction (s):<br />

In fact, I have many theories about what she meant.<br />

5. Theories:<br />

i) the metaphorical: That I am in some way like a fish, that is,<br />

that I possess the properties <strong>of</strong> a fish. Properties (fish): scaly, slimy,<br />

coldblooded, smelly, edible, with a ridiculous appearance, <strong>and</strong> finally,<br />

perhaps most importantly, aquatic. Aquatic—we have gone<br />

swimming together once or twice, but I do not recall ever spending<br />

too much time in the water. Alternative (a.): that I am as dependent<br />

on water as a fish. A sweeping indictment <strong>of</strong> society at large <strong>and</strong> its<br />

dependence on the toilet, the faucet, the bath, the outdoor shower,<br />

the hose, etc. Alternative (b.): minor properties <strong>of</strong>fish, i.e., that I<br />

am slimy <strong>and</strong> coldblooded, perhaps a liar; or scaly—I have had dry<br />

skin recently. Resolution: All possible, but I don't see why she<br />

wouldn't have chosen to call me a snake or a reptile instead.<br />

ii) the reference: Gertrude Stein: "A woman needs a man like<br />

a 'fish' needs a bicycle." A reversal <strong>of</strong> roles. Perhaps she holds the<br />

masculine role in our relationship, i.e., wears the pants, <strong>and</strong> that I<br />

am, as is <strong>of</strong>ten said in schoolyards <strong>and</strong> in prisons, her bitch. An<br />

aggression—not weak at all as I had first imagined, but, in that way,<br />

is it not the more weak for it, for, considering her condition, was<br />

not her attempt at domination merely a pathetic gesture, <strong>and</strong> in


eing so, a cry for helpi Very clever.<br />

iii) the absurd: My search for meaning in fish may be in vain;<br />

she could have meant nothing at all, or more precisely, an absolute<br />

lack <strong>of</strong> meaning. If so, fish was chosen not for the properties associated<br />

with the word or for any connotation or reference, but for its<br />

inappropriateness, its very inapplicableness to the situation. A gesture<br />

aimed at the absurdity <strong>of</strong> our condition, <strong>and</strong> in a more general<br />

way, <strong>of</strong> the human condition.<br />

iv) the acronym: Consider the letters themselves. Suppose that<br />

their sum, fish, was incidental. E.g.: Fucking Insane Selfish Human,<br />

Fibbing Incompetent Show<strong>of</strong>f Hedonist, Faintly Intelligible Stupid<br />

Head, Fabricated Incorrigible Sex Half, Filial Implied Supportive<br />

Help, Fecund Insufficient Sweat Harness, Fun Is Still Hunger.<br />

A great many possibilities.<br />

v) the Mafiosi: A threat in Mafia code. "You fish," she says,<br />

meaning, "You'll be sleeping with the fishes." We once watched The<br />

Godfather together.<br />

vi) the misunderst<strong>and</strong>ing: That I misheard what she said.<br />

vii) the verb: "You fish," she says, as in: "You go fishing."<br />

Problem: I don't fish. At least not as a habit. I think I went once as<br />

a child. I caught an oyster cracker. Resolution: She knows that I<br />

don't fish. Thus she means, "That's the problem with our relationship:<br />

we assume intimacy, yet don't know each other."<br />

viii) the ce n'est pas le mot juste: (Slightly different from<br />

Theory iii) That she meant nothing by the word fish itself, that is,<br />

she could not find the right word for what I was, the right<br />

diagnosis for the failure our relationship. Metaphor: She searched<br />

for it in a barrel <strong>of</strong> words, paused throwing out the curses lying<br />

loosely on top, rifled through the easy ones like man or boy, dumped<br />

out the nonsensical ones like Ferrari <strong>and</strong> major motion picture, she<br />

thought she had it when she began with f but then realized she'd<br />

lost it; she searched again <strong>and</strong> gave up, settling for the only word<br />

that came to mind, the word stewing at the bottom <strong>of</strong> the barrel:<br />

fish.<br />

6. Complaint:<br />

I have heard people say, "Theories, theories, theories, but what<br />

<strong>of</strong> action?" I find that to be a very odd sentence construction. Still,<br />

the complaint may be valid.<br />

7. Theoretical Responses To Theories:<br />

i) the metaphorical: Alternative (a): Stop bathing. Alternative (b):<br />

Bathe <strong>of</strong>ten, apply lotion as needed.<br />

ii) the reference: The Offensive: Ride to her on a bicycle. Take<br />

her pants <strong>of</strong>f. Comfort her. The Appeasement: Ask her to take you<br />

swimming on her bicycle. Purchase a book <strong>of</strong> quotes.<br />

iii) the absurd: Send her a note:<br />

Dear Prod,<br />

The duck in the mangrove—Who;s a tung?—-wore red geets<br />

can the right/bite? In the mid nacht between you I provence.<br />

Oysters.<br />

—Teston<br />

If she does not respond, appear to her in a cape with the<br />

numbers 4, 5, <strong>and</strong> 7 arranged in numerical order around your<br />

genitals. Holding tightly to the nape <strong>of</strong> her neck, coax her in<br />

Spanish to feed the dog bananas.<br />

iv) the acronym: Send her a regressive acronymic note:<br />

FISH.<br />

FOOL IS STILL HUMAN.<br />

FEELINGS ON OUR LOVE: IF SOMEHOW SHE TRIES<br />

INSTEAD LEAVING LOVE, HIS UNDERSTANDING MUST<br />

APPROACH NIL.<br />

etc.<br />

v) the Mafiosi: Take her out to a nice restaurant. Make sure she<br />

wears a long red dress <strong>and</strong> a wide-brimmed hat. Speak coarsely to<br />

the waiters, but tip heavily. On the way out <strong>of</strong> the restaurant, kiss<br />

her passionately, leaning her onto a nearby table. Pull up her legs<br />

roughly <strong>and</strong> sit her on the table. Avoid forks. Pull up her dress <strong>and</strong><br />

make love to her then <strong>and</strong> there on the table. Leave money for the<br />

inconvenience, also her hat. On the way home shoot her three times<br />

in the back <strong>of</strong> the head. Dump her in the river. Wear a nice suit.<br />

vi) the misunderst<strong>and</strong>ing: Ask her what she said.


44<br />

vii) the verb: Begin by saying, "I don't fish." Then if she looks<br />

surprised, say, "But I'm perfectly willing to if it's important to you."<br />

If she does not look surprised, say, "But that's what you meant, isn't<br />

it?" If she concedes, pursue the point, e.g., via the gentle reversal:<br />

"Why do you think we don't know each other well?" or request<br />

assistance: "How can we better get to know each other?"<br />

viii) the ce n'est pas le mot juste: Give her a dictionary. Read<br />

to her from it until she is tired. Then kiss her neck slowly. Make love<br />

to her sweetly, on top <strong>of</strong> the dictionary. Make it a red one <strong>and</strong><br />

surround it with white satin pillows for comfort. Preferably a very<br />

large dictionary. Better to leave the dust jacket on.<br />

8. Closing:<br />

Leaving, she had some difficulty with the door, which is to say,<br />

she couldn't open it. When she did, it came abruptly, swung too<br />

fast—so fast it might have hit her face had she not jerked back. She<br />

paused in the doorway as her h<strong>and</strong> slipped <strong>of</strong>f the knob—she<br />

paused only for a moment, a film still: her head was turned towards<br />

me, though not enough for her to see over her shoulder. I could see<br />

her face silhouetted by the light coming in through the open door<br />

<strong>and</strong> the air <strong>of</strong> the small, closed room leaving with her. Then she<br />

turned her back <strong>and</strong> walked away. The heavy door swung behind<br />

her, blowing hot air back into the room.<br />

9. Addenda to Theoretical Responses (a back-up, for it may be best<br />

not to readdress the issue, but to surprise her; i.e., to take her from<br />

above, to overcome):<br />

ix) the country song: Become a small-time country singer.<br />

Sing songs about her on the sidewalks <strong>of</strong> famous bars, empty cafe's,<br />

in stadium parking lots,<br />

e.g:<br />

Verse 1<br />

Sitting by the river<br />

Drinking my cod liver<br />

I'm still fishing for my missing family<br />

I got a Smith <strong>and</strong> Wesson<br />

A Chrysler <strong>and</strong> a Stetson<br />

But none <strong>of</strong> them can bring her back to me<br />

Chorus<br />

She left me in the shallows<br />

Lonely at the gallows<br />

Thinking about the one that got away<br />

I dream <strong>of</strong> sleeping fishes<br />

Full <strong>of</strong> silent wishes,<br />

Still hungry for the one that got away<br />

Verse 2<br />

Now there's many types <strong>of</strong> fish<br />

Might end up on your dish<br />

Anything that's caught upon your hook<br />

Don't need no fancy spices<br />

Don't matter what the price is<br />

Hunger is the heart's greatest cook<br />

(Repeat Chorus)<br />

Bridge<br />

The one that got away,<br />

the one that got away,<br />

Can't bear the taste <strong>of</strong> the one that got away.<br />

(Chorus Out)<br />

x) the postcard: Send her a postcard:<br />

"Wish you were here."<br />

10. Finale:<br />

After the door closed, when I imagine she was taking wobbly<br />

steps down the stairs outside, there was the sound <strong>of</strong> the door closing<br />

<strong>of</strong>ficially, the lock filling the slot in the frame.


11. Citations:<br />

From 25 Lessons for the Novice Fisherman: drawing <strong>of</strong> a man flyfishing<br />

on the cover, pages for notes in back. Since master<br />

fisherman, Frank Hillman, believes no one can learn the rod sitting<br />

in his smoking jacket, he attempted to publish the book with waterpro<strong>of</strong><br />

pages. He <strong>of</strong>fers these simple lessons to read the night before:<br />

Lesson 1: You need the right bait<br />

Lesson 15: Beware <strong>of</strong> too much slack in the line.<br />

From Animals in Captivity, Vol. II, by Col. F.S. Lloyd. The most<br />

important text by the pr<strong>of</strong>essional big game hunter <strong>and</strong> the father<br />

<strong>of</strong> modern animal husb<strong>and</strong>ry. A quotation from the author's gun<br />

holder serves as an example <strong>of</strong> native superstition (p. 1147):<br />

A bird will die if she does not realize the glass is solid.<br />

A fish will die if she does not pretend that it isn't.<br />

From The Proper Care for Gold Fish. A pet store manual:<br />

Caution: Don't feed them too <strong>of</strong>ten.<br />

12. Fish In Digest<br />

i.<br />

Thrown <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> s<strong>of</strong>t breast,<br />

a fish is used to confuse.<br />

The search is humid.<br />

ii.<br />

Shaking in the still'd<br />

air, she walls herself in white—<br />

the mystery <strong>of</strong> red.<br />

iii.<br />

Perhaps in vain, I<br />

strive to underst<strong>and</strong> a girl<br />

with hair <strong>of</strong> lo mein<br />

IV.<br />

I have heard people<br />

say, "Theories, theories, theories,<br />

but what <strong>of</strong> action?"<br />

v.<br />

Above all action<br />

I hover like a mallard<br />

before wet-l<strong>and</strong>ing.<br />

vi.<br />

Words fall like Autumn<br />

from a hot-temper'd woman;<br />

H<strong>and</strong> struggles with knob.<br />

vii.<br />

A white ocean swarms<br />

with red fish, I dip my toes<br />

<strong>and</strong> sing country songs.<br />

viii.<br />

Between her <strong>and</strong> me<br />

the key moment is the shut—<br />

perhaps the locking.<br />

ix.<br />

The oceans dry up,<br />

leaving the sleeping fishes<br />

to wake up gasping.<br />

x.<br />

Meditating after,<br />

I'm hungry like a loose strap—<br />

Fish Inedible.


13. Conclusion:<br />

After she left, I dreamt that I had followed her to the grounds<br />

<strong>of</strong> a Japanese castle. The castle had been rebuilt <strong>and</strong> renovated, a<br />

museum reproduction recently occupied by yakuza. Despite their<br />

absence, I felt like an intruder. A museum-goer h<strong>and</strong>ling the statues.<br />

The halls <strong>of</strong> the castle held an impossible, inert atmosphere;<br />

dust hung perfectly motionless in the air, reflecting the light<br />

coming through the arrow slits in the walls. I went into a white<br />

room looking for her. I felt as if I were underwater. The room was<br />

refrigerated; against the far wall an aquarium sat on a table beside<br />

two food canisters. The fish had been left for dead, <strong>and</strong> I knew they<br />

must be starving. I tapped out the flakes <strong>and</strong> bits <strong>of</strong> mulch from the<br />

two containers, but none <strong>of</strong> the food broke the surface tension <strong>of</strong><br />

the water, <strong>and</strong> none <strong>of</strong> the fish noticed. They swam along the blue<br />

rocks at the bottom <strong>of</strong> the tank, darting back <strong>and</strong> forth through the<br />

plastic castle. "Come," I said, but the fish were unreachable. They<br />

swam below the surface, stopping occasionally to open their mouths<br />

without significance.<br />

I left the room <strong>and</strong> continued to search the hallway. At the<br />

entrance to a room around the corner was the body <strong>of</strong> a man in a<br />

black suit, his leather shoes pointing towards the ceiling accusingly.<br />

Behind him were racks <strong>of</strong> swords. A museum collection <strong>of</strong> valuable<br />

<strong>and</strong> historically important weapons. I had always wanted to hold<br />

one <strong>of</strong> the swords <strong>and</strong> did not hesitate. Reaching over the body, my<br />

foot stepped on a stiff h<strong>and</strong>. I picked what I thought was a covered<br />

sword, but the sword was not inside; I was holding only the leather<br />

sheath.<br />

—GARY LUTZ<br />

Men Your Own Age<br />

There was some thrifty rigmarole I used to manage with the<br />

ring finger <strong>of</strong> a T. A. I knew at school, when it was my sister he said<br />

he was after, or at least the little <strong>of</strong> my face that had been put to<br />

smoother, unbrotherly use on hers.<br />

This was a ring finger whose ring was tricked out with a bigger<br />

allotment <strong>of</strong> surface novelty than you usually got with even a<br />

college ring. The thing had inlays, bossings, oversets. It was as availing<br />

an obstruction as I ever allowed that far up inside.<br />

The college? The college was a state college with little but brick<br />

in its nature. We came out <strong>of</strong> it in the guise <strong>of</strong> people thriveless in<br />

pairs.<br />

Him <strong>and</strong> my sister.<br />

Me <strong>and</strong> a boy it was later all I could do to make any barely<br />

lasting light <strong>of</strong>.<br />

That said, forget them.<br />

I was twenty-three already, in poor order among the other<br />

clerks <strong>and</strong> mistakers <strong>and</strong> separates in our state's junior city. We got<br />

jerked forward into the economy regardless. A man at the <strong>of</strong>fice had<br />

flowers routed to my desk. In the copier room later, he joked me<br />

around to a deplenishing kiss. But the one I moved in with breathed<br />

more cleanly into my face. He was set on swifter sorrow, spoiling for<br />

it. So I let myself get h<strong>and</strong>ed along to high-schoolers, bus boys with<br />

transportation, escapeways.


Then twenty-five, <strong>and</strong> thickened out, but you could still see a<br />

little <strong>of</strong> me around the eyes, the fitting mouth. I was <strong>of</strong>f <strong>and</strong> on with<br />

an illustrator. He had the bottom half <strong>of</strong> a house <strong>and</strong> soon all the<br />

blazonry <strong>of</strong> that new disease.<br />

He perspired <strong>and</strong> shrank.<br />

It had to be closed-casket.<br />

Then an immediate cleanout <strong>of</strong> his fair-haired porn before his<br />

parents <strong>and</strong> sister had their dullard turn at the shirts, the charms.<br />

I moved into a flimsily carpentered apartment house <strong>and</strong> within<br />

days was timing my baths to the unpeaceful baths a neighbor on<br />

the other side <strong>of</strong> the wall was giving her toddler son. He would slap<br />

brattily at the water, <strong>and</strong> I would follow suit—accepting the threats,<br />

hogging scolds through the sweating tile. I otherwise kept my own<br />

counsel <strong>and</strong> did not answer the door, the intercom, the phone.<br />

Resolved, then pooh-poohed:<br />

That the body is far too big a place.<br />

Or that it's actually just the same two puny, venereal places<br />

every time I get there.<br />

I was going for total strangers, men comprehensively unfamiliar,<br />

unrememberable, in clammy concisions <strong>of</strong> limb after limb. I<br />

patrolled my body for purplements, lesions; found only the<br />

ordinaria <strong>of</strong> dim good health. And I bought a radio, one that pulled<br />

in stations from farther away. I listened to call-in programs for the<br />

gist <strong>of</strong> the distant gripe. One night it was incivility, <strong>and</strong> prices. I<br />

huddled together with examples <strong>of</strong> my own—six-fifty for five<br />

tablets that hardly fizzed or smartened the bathwater; twenty-five<br />

for some froth that returned little <strong>of</strong> my old gloss. I picked up the<br />

phone, dialed the long distance, was soon talking perfect morbid<br />

sense to the screener.<br />

"You called earlier tonight," she said.<br />

A trick I learned: Alternate your late lunches between one<br />

restaurant <strong>and</strong> another—but just those regular two. Keep it up long<br />

enough for the counterpeople at each to hurry to smug, clement<br />

certitude that you're in there every single day.<br />

You've doubled the mark you leave on the town.<br />

You're coupled.<br />

I was what—thirty-one?<br />

Let this sound better: I was cozying up to whatever was nothing<br />

to people. A loose string on the sleeve <strong>of</strong> someone's workweek<br />

sweater? I would pick it <strong>of</strong>f unnoticed <strong>and</strong> give it place, keepsaken<br />

privilege, perpetuance, behind a window in my wallet.<br />

That's how I hauled people <strong>of</strong>f. I divided them from their lives<br />

one fiber at a time.<br />

Then the men your own age start passing fussily into ugliness.<br />

You can point to exact places where death is already imbibing them.<br />

Women, even the older ones, no longer seem that big a step<br />

down.<br />

I took the ribbing <strong>and</strong> pursued myself into a few.<br />

The first <strong>and</strong> second were swanking drunks <strong>of</strong> splendid wasted<br />

education <strong>and</strong> a reliable opponency <strong>of</strong> eye. The third had an<br />

untreasured body <strong>of</strong> moles <strong>and</strong> pocks. She knew what was being<br />

pitted against what but did not feel up to actual idle friction.<br />

The fourth—there was no one thing she rubbed my nose in. It<br />

was always a surprise, what she would find to hold against me: That<br />

a man has a forereaching thing built right onto him already, while a<br />

woman has to feel her way forward without help? That every<br />

woman is just an effigy <strong>of</strong> whoever got to you earlier, or first?<br />

People are picky about the tribute they'll take.<br />

Or wait:<br />

To make things easier on people, try looking at them from on<br />

high. Straight down. Then they're mainly hair <strong>and</strong> swollen waist,<br />

but mostly just the headway <strong>of</strong> their pointing shoes.<br />

Which is to say: I married at forty-two.<br />

The first let-up in the reception, <strong>and</strong> I was upstairs again, picking<br />

over the pews—programs left behind, mostly. Notes had been<br />

exchanged on a thumb-marked blank back page:<br />

"Think he even knows who women are?"<br />

"Low blows today at least reach a certain altitude."


Quick question: My wife?<br />

She was slow-legged <strong>and</strong> only loosely bound to me in household<br />

hindsight already. I kept bumping into her in rooms lit only<br />

by night-lights. There was a circle <strong>of</strong> friends she said she would not<br />

give up—a thick-packed circle that went round <strong>and</strong> around in its<br />

fumings under our ro<strong>of</strong>.<br />

One day the circumference lost its give.<br />

Thing just snapped.<br />

Wound itself around one <strong>of</strong> the women, the least hurried to<br />

alarm.<br />

Then my wife trying to part her from it, <strong>and</strong> the two <strong>of</strong> them<br />

fallen into each other's arms. Not "Here we finally are," but "Look,<br />

you know me better."<br />

I learned to stir a finger in them both.<br />

-PIOTR GWIAZDA<br />

The Refugee<br />

Love puts its h<strong>and</strong>s over my eyes <strong>and</strong> whispers "Guess who?"<br />

love, like Chinese opera or the news at eleven.<br />

love (<strong>and</strong> I'm not ashamed to call it by name,<br />

though I am ashamed I've got no defense mechanism against it),<br />

love chases me round the block as if I stole something from it,<br />

but I get smart, hail a cab, speed serenely away<br />

to where my fellow refugees from every part <strong>of</strong> the world,<br />

or this city, are driving too, stay overnight,<br />

<strong>and</strong> move on the next morning, fearless, forgetful,<br />

each <strong>of</strong> them simultaneously a refugee <strong>and</strong> a refuge.<br />

Have I ever loved? I don't know. My past is still at large,<br />

but my future is foreseeable like, oh... balding pattern.<br />

Should I pin a button to my heart that says Strangers Only?<br />

Since even you, when we returned home last night<br />

after the hairdresser's party, surprised me with having nothing<br />

left in your faultless, faithful body to surprise me,<br />

your nakedness instantly recognizable, like my own.


54<br />

—J. D. MCCLATCHY<br />

Two Motets<br />

1. The Model<br />

The model lay on a sheet<br />

trimmed with silver filigree,<br />

a lopsided str<strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> pearls<br />

around her neck, her eyes<br />

half open to everything, her hair<br />

pulled behind, one loose tangle<br />

fallen over her left shoulder.<br />

Her torso had been peeled back<br />

from breast to patch, lifted <strong>of</strong>f.<br />

There she was, at last herself.<br />

Her heart still glistened<br />

with its suppliant runners,<br />

its black veins getting nowhere.<br />

The sheath <strong>of</strong> liver, the back streets<br />

<strong>of</strong> gutwork, those crimped<br />

or lustrously blistered globes<br />

they were trying to stuff back in.<br />

And the tucked fetus, as clean<br />

<strong>and</strong> small as a wince, a wire.<br />

Where will they put that?<br />

To whom does it belong now?<br />

2. The Cemetery<br />

After a month, it seemed like forever.<br />

I'd find myself in the afternoons<br />

at the municipal cemetery,<br />

near one <strong>of</strong> the league-long colonnades<br />

<strong>of</strong> sealed drawers <strong>and</strong> plastic flowers.<br />

Was it a monument or a warning?<br />

A lifesize woman in limestone,<br />

listening at the grate <strong>of</strong> an iron door,<br />

her face half-turned toward the figure<br />

at her feet—a beggar? the little love-boy<br />

in rags, dirty with the years gone by?<br />

In one h<strong>and</strong> she holds a goblet<br />

the snake twisting around her arm drinks from.<br />

In the other, a shallow bowl filled with coins.<br />

She is spilling the coins towards the boy,<br />

his arm reaching up, fingers pleading.<br />

The stone coins have spilled over the bowl,<br />

falling towards the boy who never gets them.


—DEBORAH LANDAU<br />

Each Year I Grow Smaller<br />

Each year I grow smaller,<br />

shed selves like those Russian dolls<br />

hardening into the singular<br />

glazed mannequin<br />

wife.<br />

Dusk on Mulholl<strong>and</strong> Drive,<br />

fire roads spike into the burntbrown hills<br />

<strong>and</strong> I'm winding home along the spine <strong>of</strong> the city<br />

as the thous<strong>and</strong> thous<strong>and</strong> lights click on<br />

Ventura Boulevard strung out below like a fractured bone-<br />

this city is fat with gas stations <strong>and</strong> tract homes,<br />

where someone's shaking a tablecloth, scraping dishes,<br />

clipping a child's moony fingernails—<br />

where a radio's on so the dog won't be lonely<br />

where couples sleep, wrapped in the marriage bed,<br />

that thick gauze b<strong>and</strong>age.<br />

Once evening was a clear glass bowl<br />

empty <strong>of</strong> everything.<br />

Once I was sixteen girls<br />

in sixteen cities,<br />

all <strong>of</strong> them possible.<br />

—DAVID PUANTE<br />

Pity for the World<br />

On the train from New Haven to New York, Gerald Vanasse<br />

read term papers written by his students, made short comments,<br />

such as "confused," <strong>and</strong> marked them. S<strong>of</strong>t, wet snow covered the<br />

window he sat next to, so the waning daylight showed through greyblue;<br />

then the accumulated snow cracked <strong>and</strong> slid down the glass,<br />

<strong>and</strong> Gerald saw a l<strong>and</strong>scape, a snow-deep field, the setting sun<br />

beyond it a red ball.<br />

Gerald taught Freshman English composition at Hunter<br />

College. He had spent the weekend with his parents outside New<br />

Haven, <strong>and</strong> he was returning to Manhattan, where he lived with his<br />

girlfriend, Susanna Agostinelli. He took a taxi from Pennsylvania<br />

Station. In the beams <strong>of</strong> the taxi headlights up 10 th Avenue, he saw<br />

the snow was rutted with black, crisscrossing tire tracks. He lived<br />

with Susanna in a walk-up on West 84 th Street, near the River. She<br />

wasn't in, though he'd expected her to be.<br />

The apartment had two rooms, the living-dining room <strong>and</strong> the<br />

bedroom. In the bedroom, Gerald found, stuck in a vase on the<br />

bureau <strong>and</strong> leaning sideways, a large pinwheel, red <strong>and</strong> yellow, the<br />

looped blades stuck with glitter, its stick green. He blew on it <strong>and</strong> it<br />

turned, <strong>and</strong> he wondered where it came from. As if expecting something<br />

else to be new, or different, he looked around the bedroom.<br />

The bed was made <strong>and</strong> there were no clothes thrown here <strong>and</strong> there.<br />

Susanna was as neat as he was, <strong>and</strong> this, maybe, was one reason why<br />

they could live together. Again, he blew on the pinwheel, <strong>and</strong>,


watching it turn slowly, a moment <strong>of</strong> quiet pity came to him for the<br />

world. He heard Susanna come in.<br />

All her heavy winter clothes exhaled a breath <strong>of</strong> cold freshness.<br />

She, a little out <strong>of</strong> breath <strong>and</strong> her face reddish, kissed Gerald when<br />

he held her <strong>and</strong> said, "I've spent the day with Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul." Her<br />

clothes were fresh <strong>and</strong> cool, but Gerald sensed, holding her, that her<br />

body beneath was sticky <strong>and</strong> hot. She yanked <strong>of</strong>if her knitted cap,<br />

unwound her scarf <strong>and</strong> pulled it <strong>of</strong>f, <strong>and</strong> she shook out her long,<br />

loose, blonde hair, a little matted, as if with sweat. He held her more<br />

closely, pressed his hips against hers, <strong>and</strong> kissed her again.<br />

She drew back <strong>and</strong> asked, laughing, "How are your mother <strong>and</strong><br />

father?" anticipating, it seemed, his saying something funny about<br />

them.<br />

He let her go. "Not well," he said, "<strong>and</strong> I only wonder now<br />

who'll go first."<br />

Turning toward the bedroom, she said, "I rushed getting back<br />

here before you got in <strong>and</strong> I worked up a sweat. I'm going to have<br />

a quick shower."<br />

The bathroom was <strong>of</strong>f the bedroom. Gerald hung around the<br />

living room for a while, not sure he should go into the bedroom<br />

until Susanna called him. Then he went into the bedroom <strong>and</strong> hung<br />

around there while Susanna was having her shower, the door to the<br />

bathroom half open. He sat on the bed <strong>and</strong> watched her dry her<br />

body, then her hair.<br />

He was thirty, with blond wavy hair he kept very short, so his<br />

blond face looked round <strong>and</strong> exposed.<br />

He asked, "Where did the pinwheel come from?"<br />

"A present from Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul."<br />

"Why a pinwheel?"<br />

In a terry cloth bathrobe <strong>and</strong> wrapping a towel around her stilldamp<br />

hair, Susanna came into the bedroom. "Why not?"<br />

"I don't know. It just seems a little odd that Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul<br />

should think <strong>of</strong> giving you a pinwheel for no reason."<br />

Susanna laughed, picked up the pinwheel, <strong>and</strong> blew on it so it<br />

turned.<br />

Gerald wanted to make love with her, now, right now. He<br />

wanted to put his h<strong>and</strong>s on her hips <strong>and</strong> pull her, the pinwheel held<br />

in her h<strong>and</strong>, to him.<br />

He said, "Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul didn't give it to you, tell me the<br />

truth."<br />

Laughing shrilly, Susanna said, "Who else could have?"<br />

He stood <strong>and</strong> reached out to put his h<strong>and</strong>s on her hips, but she<br />

moved away.<br />

She had prepared onion soup to be re-heated for their simple<br />

Sunday evening meal. They ate at the little drop-leaf table in the<br />

living room. She told him how she'd been to the Park with Penny<br />

<strong>and</strong> Paul. From time to time, she adjusted the towel about her head.<br />

After they did the dishes together, Susanna, unwinding the<br />

towel so her matted hair fell, said she'd go to bed; though it was<br />

early, she was tired.<br />

"I'll go to bed too," Gerald said. "I'm tired."<br />

The mild jealousy caused by her friendship with Penny <strong>and</strong><br />

Paul, from the PR. company where she worked, made Gerald<br />

possessive <strong>of</strong> her, a little, especially when he knew she had seen them<br />

without him. In the bedroom, he waited, half lying on the bed,<br />

while she, in the bathroom, brushed her hair, <strong>and</strong> he began to<br />

undress only when she came into the room. Taking <strong>of</strong>f his shirt, he<br />

watched Susanna open her bathrobe onto her naked body then let<br />

the robe fall <strong>of</strong>f her shoulders <strong>and</strong> down her long arms, <strong>and</strong> the possessiveness<br />

stirred in him. She caught the robe up with one h<strong>and</strong><br />

just as it was about to fall to the floor.<br />

He was diffident because he was unsure <strong>of</strong> her reaction to his<br />

reaching out for her. He took <strong>of</strong>f his shoes <strong>and</strong> socks but not his<br />

trousers before he went to her, now slipping her nightgown over her<br />

head, <strong>and</strong> he helped her pull her long hair from under the cloth over<br />

her back <strong>and</strong> up over the collar, a narrow lace collar with a thin ribbon<br />

through it, <strong>and</strong> he smoothed it down her back. The thin<br />

delicate white cloth settled s<strong>of</strong>tly about her body, which, smoothing<br />

her hair, he felt beneath the cloth.<br />

His desire thrilled in him, <strong>and</strong> though he knew she had told<br />

him the truth about spending the day with Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul, he<br />

wished, with a higher thrill, that she had made love with some other<br />

man while he'd been with his dying parents. She looked at him, her<br />

eyes large with playfulness <strong>and</strong> also alarm that he would go too far


6o<br />

in his own playfulness <strong>and</strong> try to press her to go further than she<br />

wanted to now. His chest bare, he leaned slowly toward her <strong>and</strong>,<br />

without otherwise touching her, his h<strong>and</strong>s held out from his body,<br />

he lightly kissed her exposed ear <strong>and</strong> whispered, "Tell me the<br />

truth—you made love with some other man."<br />

She drew back, laughing, <strong>and</strong> asked, "What other man?"<br />

His body, thrilling, became entirely a body <strong>of</strong> desire. He put his<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s on her shoulders to bring her to him, but she stepped away.<br />

"I don't like this," she said.<br />

His h<strong>and</strong>s remained in the air. "All right," he said, <strong>and</strong> dropped<br />

his h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />

She got into bed <strong>and</strong> he went into the bathroom where, in the<br />

shower, with a h<strong>and</strong>ful <strong>of</strong> multiplying <strong>and</strong> dripping suds he held his<br />

penis.<br />

He wore only a t-shirt to bed. The lamp on his side <strong>of</strong> the bed<br />

was lit, the one on Susanna's side out, <strong>and</strong> she was lying turned away<br />

from him. When he got in, he didn't switch <strong>of</strong>f the light but, his<br />

body twisted, lowered his face to her head <strong>and</strong> said,<br />

matter-<strong>of</strong>-factly, "You came home from making love with some<br />

other man, didn't you?"<br />

She turned onto her back <strong>and</strong> raised a h<strong>and</strong> to brush long<br />

str<strong>and</strong>s from her face, then she rested her h<strong>and</strong> on the pillow by her<br />

head. As matter-<strong>of</strong>-factly, she said, "I did, yes."<br />

A strange wave <strong>of</strong> gratitude went through him. "I thought so,"<br />

he said. The wave rose, <strong>and</strong>, in rising, other feelings were drawn up<br />

<strong>and</strong> mixed into it, most <strong>of</strong> which had nothing to do with gratitude.<br />

"Who was it?" he asked.<br />

Her eyes blank, she said, "No one you have to know anything<br />

about, as he knows nothing about you, <strong>and</strong> never will."<br />

Gerald laughed, a hard laugh. "That's what you think," he said.<br />

Her irises shifted back <strong>and</strong> forth in her blank eyes. "Look," she<br />

said, "I'm not above flattery, <strong>and</strong> I gave into flattery, <strong>and</strong> that's all it<br />

was.<br />

"And I do more than just flatter you?"<br />

"Yes, you do. If you want to know, you do much more than just<br />

flatter me. And that's why I live with you."<br />

"I thought we lived together because we're both so neat. So,<br />

what do I do, then? Tell me?"<br />

She said, "You love me."<br />

"Do I?"<br />

Susanna closed her eyes.<br />

"Who is this guy?" Gerald asked. "Who?"<br />

She kept her eyes closed, though a cheek, her jaw, an eyelid<br />

twitched a little.<br />

"Do Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul know him?" Gerald asked. "Is that how<br />

you met him?"<br />

Susanna nodded yes.<br />

"He's a friend <strong>of</strong> theirs?"<br />

Again, she nodded.<br />

Gerald jabbed his erection against her thigh <strong>and</strong> dem<strong>and</strong>ed,<br />

"Tell me what you did with him."<br />

It was as if he hit her <strong>and</strong> her face closed in tightly.<br />

"Tell me," he said, <strong>and</strong> again jabbed his erection against her.<br />

Her face remained tightly closed.<br />

He said, "I'm not going to force you to have sex with me. Not<br />

me. You know that's not me. No, no. But you've got to tell me who<br />

this guy is <strong>and</strong> what you did."<br />

"Please," Susanna pleaded.<br />

Gerald dem<strong>and</strong>ed, "Who is he?"<br />

"His name is Patrick."<br />

"Patrick?" He jabbed with his erection. "Did you say Patrick?<br />

Patrick?"<br />

"Yes."<br />

"Patrick what?"<br />

"Patrick Dean."<br />

"Patrick Dean? And where does he live?"<br />

"Over on the East Side."<br />

"You went to his apartment on the East Side?"<br />

Yes.<br />

"How old is he?"<br />

"Please, please, please," Susanna said.<br />

Thrusting himself harder against her, so he felt her whole body<br />

move with the impact, he said, "I'm going to meet this guy, this<br />

Patrick Dean."


62<br />

"Please, please, please don't."<br />

"I'm not asking for much. I'll be very polite to him. You know<br />

how polite I can be. But I'm going to meet him."<br />

Susanna said, "I've understood your having sex with other<br />

women. I've understood <strong>and</strong> accepted. I've believed you when<br />

you've said I was important <strong>and</strong> they weren't. You've got to accept<br />

me."<br />

"I accept," he said. "But I want to see him, I want to see him,<br />

<strong>and</strong>, after, I want to hear what you did with him, I want to hear<br />

everything." Saying this, thrusting, he lost control entirely, <strong>and</strong>,<br />

moaning deep in his throat, he grabbed her to pull her hard against<br />

him.<br />

"Oh!" Susanna exclaimed.<br />

He touched the spot on her thigh where the nightgown was wet<br />

<strong>and</strong> warm <strong>and</strong> sticky. He said, "You'll have to change." She said<br />

nothing but threw the bedclothes from her, got up, <strong>and</strong> quickly<br />

went to a drawer in her bureau to take out a clean nightgown, then<br />

into the bathroom. He lay still.<br />

When she came back in the clean nightgown <strong>and</strong> got into bed,<br />

Gerald switched <strong>of</strong>f his lamp.<br />

He said, "I'm going to meet him. Do you hear me?"<br />

"All right."<br />

"All right?"<br />

"All right, all right, all right," she said, <strong>and</strong> she turned her back<br />

to him.<br />

He couldn't sleep.<br />

His parents were not very old, not very, but, as if they shared<br />

everything in life including illness, they both had cancer, were both<br />

in <strong>and</strong> out <strong>of</strong> the hospital, were sometimes in at the same time.<br />

Gerald had a sister, Jeanne, born just a year after him, <strong>and</strong> she,<br />

living at home, was taking care <strong>of</strong> their parents. He worried about<br />

her, worried that she was using up her life taking care <strong>of</strong> them, <strong>and</strong><br />

he didn't do any more than he could on weekends he spent with<br />

them. And even then, Jeanne did most <strong>of</strong> the looking after their parents<br />

while he read.<br />

Susanna would be better <strong>of</strong>f without me, he thought.<br />

In the morning, he got out <strong>of</strong> bed before her, though she was<br />

awake. She lay in bed while he, in the bathroom, shaved, <strong>and</strong>, back<br />

in the bedroom, dressed. Just before he left, he asked, "Are you<br />

going to work today?"<br />

She sat up. Her lids were swollen <strong>and</strong> red. "How can I?" she<br />

said.<br />

"Then don't go to work," he said. "Penny <strong>and</strong> Paul will underst<strong>and</strong><br />

why you can't. But you call this Patrick guy <strong>and</strong> make a date."<br />

"You want to humiliate me."<br />

"I told you—"<br />

Her face contorted. "I've had to take so much from you, what<br />

you refuse to take from me without humiliating me. And I take it.<br />

I take it. I take it." She yelled, "I take it <strong>and</strong> take it."<br />

On the cross-town bus, he felt not awful but light-spirited, <strong>and</strong><br />

he felt light-spirited all day. He felt he was on a level somewhere<br />

above himself, <strong>and</strong> he didn't look down. In a composition class he<br />

once again explained the difference between who <strong>and</strong> whom,<br />

which, frankly, he was never quite sure about himself. The snow was<br />

melting from the window frames <strong>and</strong> water was running down the<br />

sunlit panes.<br />

In the afternoon, when he got back to the apartment <strong>and</strong> took<br />

<strong>of</strong>f his overcoat <strong>and</strong> hung it in the closet in the entry, he found<br />

Susanna, without makeup so her face looked pale <strong>and</strong> stark, sitting,<br />

her legs under her, on the s<strong>of</strong>a, staring out. She held a crumpled<br />

h<strong>and</strong>kerchief in a h<strong>and</strong>. Her eyes were red.<br />

He asked flatly, "Did you make a date with that guy?"<br />

"I did."<br />

"For when?"<br />

"He wanted to see me right away, as soon as I called him, but I<br />

said later this afternoon."<br />

"He wanted to see you right away?"<br />

Looking away, Susanna said, "He wanted to see me right away."<br />

Gerald sat in an armchair at an angle to her. He asked, "You<br />

didn't go to work today?"<br />

"I didn't."<br />

Gerald put his h<strong>and</strong>s to his face, then, after he dropped them,<br />

he said, "Do you want me to pack up my things <strong>and</strong> go? If you want<br />

that, I'll do it. Maybe it'd be better for you if I did."


64<br />

Susanna shook her head so violently her hair flew out. "No,"<br />

she said, <strong>and</strong> her red eyes filled with tears that made them redder.<br />

As if she were ill <strong>and</strong> he would now take care <strong>of</strong> her, he said,<br />

"I'll make us cups <strong>of</strong> tea."<br />

"Thanks," she said quietly, wiping her eyes with her bunchedup<br />

h<strong>and</strong>kerchief.<br />

When he h<strong>and</strong>ed her a cup <strong>of</strong> tea, she looked into the steam<br />

rising from it <strong>and</strong> said, "I wish we lived in a different world."<br />

"Different, how?" he asked.<br />

"I don't know."<br />

The sun set as they drank their tea.<br />

Rising to switch on a floor lamp, Gerald asked, "Did you tell<br />

this Patrick guy you were coming with me?"<br />

"No, I didn't."<br />

"Shouldn't we be going?"<br />

Susanna threw herself on the s<strong>of</strong>a face down, her arms folded<br />

over her breasts, her legs hanging over the edge. "I don't want to<br />

go," she said.<br />

"We're going," Gerald said.<br />

"I don't want to."<br />

"You've got to."<br />

"Why have I got to?"<br />

"If you want me to stay with you, you've got to."<br />

"Why?"<br />

"Because that's the way this world is."<br />

Susanna raised herself by pressing her h<strong>and</strong>s against the s<strong>of</strong>a,<br />

<strong>and</strong> she lurched as, bent over, she went to the bedroom. Gerald<br />

walked about the living room, sometimes going to the window to<br />

look out at the street <strong>and</strong> the house lights across through the still<br />

bare, spindly trees. He turned to Susanna when she came into the<br />

living room, made up <strong>and</strong> wearing a trenchcoat <strong>and</strong> a kerchief, <strong>and</strong>,<br />

without speaking, he put on his coat <strong>and</strong> held the door open for her<br />

to go out first.<br />

They didn't talk in the taxi that took them through Central<br />

Park. The taxi stopped before the long, green <strong>and</strong> white striped<br />

awning to the entrance <strong>of</strong> an apartment building <strong>of</strong>f Madison<br />

Avenue, <strong>and</strong> a doorman in a green uniform opened the door. He<br />

said Mr. Dean was waiting for Susanna Agostinelli, <strong>and</strong> he pointed<br />

the way to the elevators. In the illuminated lobby were groups <strong>of</strong><br />

armchairs, upholstered in fake tapestry <strong>and</strong> with gilded legs <strong>and</strong> arm<br />

rests, which they passed among to go to the shining golden doors <strong>of</strong><br />

the elevators at the back.<br />

As they waited, Susanna asked Gerald, "Won't you do me a<br />

favor <strong>and</strong> wait here? I'll be there only a minute, only long enough<br />

to tell him I won't see him again, then I'll come down <strong>and</strong> that'll be<br />

the end <strong>of</strong> it."<br />

Gerald suddenly laughed <strong>and</strong> said, "Nope."<br />

And she, too, laughed. "Come on."<br />

"No, nope."<br />

Weakly, she leaned against the elevator door. "Please," she said,<br />

"pretty, pretty please?"<br />

"Nope."<br />

The elevator door began to slide open, <strong>and</strong> she stood back. He<br />

stepped in <strong>and</strong> held the button to keep the door open <strong>and</strong> she<br />

stepped in, her head lolling from weakness. He asked, "What<br />

floor?" She told him, <strong>and</strong> as they rose he said, "Remember, after<br />

you're going to tell me what you did together." She leaned against<br />

the side <strong>of</strong> the elevator <strong>and</strong> closed her eyes.<br />

On the l<strong>and</strong>ing was a small table with long thin legs, <strong>and</strong> hanging<br />

on the pale grey wall above was a mirror. Gerald saw Susanna<br />

look into the mirror <strong>and</strong> bite her lower lip. On the table was a glass,<br />

or maybe crystal, obelisk. There were two doors.<br />

"Which door?" Gerald asked.<br />

Susanna pointed, <strong>and</strong> Gerald rang <strong>and</strong> stepped back to her side.<br />

The door was paneled <strong>and</strong> painted a pale grey with gold outlining<br />

the beveled insets to the panels. It opened wide, <strong>and</strong> a thin young<br />

man, almost a boy, wearing only khaki shorts, was st<strong>and</strong>ing on a<br />

grey carpet before them. He smiled at Susanna, but when he saw<br />

Gerald his smile went. Behind him, in the apartment, were many<br />

white c<strong>and</strong>les burning on glass surfaces. He stepped back, his toes<br />

sinking into the pile <strong>of</strong> the carpet. For someone who appeared so<br />

young, the veins in his arms <strong>and</strong> chest were large <strong>and</strong> prominent.<br />

With a broken laugh, Susanna said, "Hi."<br />

The guy, frowning, said, "Hi."


66<br />

Susanna didn't introduce him to Gerald, who remained a step<br />

behind <strong>and</strong> to the side <strong>of</strong> her. Beyond the guy, Gerald saw, in the<br />

c<strong>and</strong>le light, crystal obelisks <strong>and</strong> pyramids <strong>and</strong> angular crystal<br />

animals, shining. The guy went into the room <strong>and</strong> began to blow<br />

out the c<strong>and</strong>les, but stopped <strong>and</strong> turned back to Susanna <strong>and</strong><br />

Gerald, still st<strong>and</strong>ing outside the apartment.<br />

He asked, "Would you like a drink or something?"<br />

With another broken laugh, Susanna said, "No, no. I just came<br />

to say—"<br />

Gerald, studying him, saw the guy did not have a boy's, but a<br />

wizened man's face.<br />

Susanna laughed <strong>and</strong> then she lowered her head <strong>and</strong> touched<br />

her h<strong>and</strong> to her forehead, <strong>and</strong> she laughed again. "I don't know."<br />

Behind her, Gerald pushed her a little in her back.<br />

She immediately dropped her h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> looked up at the guy<br />

<strong>and</strong> said, "I wanted to tell you, in front <strong>of</strong> my boyfriend, that I<br />

won't see you again, that's all." As the guy smiled blankly, Susanna<br />

quickly faced Gerald <strong>and</strong> said, "So let's go."<br />

Gerald waved to the guy <strong>and</strong> say, "Bye," <strong>and</strong> he turned away<br />

from the door with Susanna. They stood at the elevator door,<br />

waiting, <strong>and</strong> neither looked back. The door to the apartment shut.<br />

Out on the street, Susanna walked beside Gerald in a wavering<br />

way, as if she were always about to walk away from him but always<br />

came back.<br />

He asked, "Shall we go back through the Park?"<br />

"I don't care," she said.<br />

"Tell me," he said.<br />

"If you want."<br />

They went through the dark Park, the yellow lights <strong>of</strong> apartments<br />

shining through the black branches <strong>of</strong> trees.<br />

On the West Side, Gerald said, "Maybe we should go to a<br />

restaurant for something to eat."<br />

"If you want," Susanna said.<br />

He chose a restaurant they had never been to before, <strong>and</strong> before<br />

entering asked her if it was all right with her. She said she didn't<br />

care. And he ordered for her because she didn't care what she ate—<br />

a minute steak <strong>and</strong> a baked potato with sour cream. They were<br />

silent waiting for the food, <strong>and</strong> the waiter, who must have sensed<br />

something in their silence, served them deferentially, placing the<br />

plates on the Formica with a napkin <strong>and</strong> sliding them toward them<br />

<strong>and</strong> telling them, quietly, not to touch them, they were very hot.<br />

In the apartment, Gerald switched on the lights <strong>and</strong> looked<br />

around. He sat on the s<strong>of</strong>a <strong>and</strong> Susanna went into the bedroom.<br />

Through the open doorway, he saw her, in the light slanting in from<br />

the living room, undress <strong>and</strong> get into bed. He remained on the s<strong>of</strong>a.<br />

In the shower, Gerald pulled the foreskin <strong>of</strong> his penis back to<br />

let the water run over it, <strong>and</strong> he told himself he wouldn't ever ask<br />

Susanna what had happened between her <strong>and</strong> that guy Patrick, he<br />

would never humiliate her in that way. But as he told himself this<br />

he felt his penis swell in his h<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> he knew he would ask her.<br />

Naked, he stood by the bed for a while <strong>and</strong> gazed at her. Her<br />

eyes were closed. He switched <strong>of</strong>f the bedside lamp <strong>and</strong> shut the<br />

bedroom door when he went out into the living room.<br />

Quietly, he telephoned his sister Jeanne. She said she'd been<br />

trying to telephone him. She was really scared. Their mother <strong>and</strong><br />

father were in a very bad way. They should go to the hospital, but<br />

they said they wanted to die at home, together, in their bed.


68<br />

-JASON SCHNEIDERMAN<br />

The Disease Collector<br />

Odd word: culture, as though this swab cared<br />

About art <strong>and</strong> music, loved the opera,<br />

Saw the Ballet Russe when Nijinskij still bared<br />

His chest, could quote the illuminata<br />

In the original Italian. As though this petri dish<br />

Were a center <strong>of</strong> learning, <strong>and</strong> parents wished<br />

For their children to go there, like Harvard or Yale,<br />

As though a positive answer would not pale<br />

My cheeks, or force me to wholly rearrange<br />

My life around pills <strong>and</strong> doctors' visits;<br />

Force me to find old lovers <strong>and</strong> tricks,<br />

Warn that their bodies may too grow strange;<br />

To play the old game <strong>of</strong> who gave it to whom,<br />

Gently lowering voices, alone in one's room.<br />

—JUDY BUDNITZ<br />

Hook, Line, & Sinker<br />

My gr<strong>and</strong>mother called. I found a doctor for you, she said,<br />

Roz's gr<strong>and</strong>son.<br />

Roz was her best friend. They lived in the same whitewashed<br />

condominium complex. They played shuffleboard together. They<br />

went to the swimming pool <strong>and</strong> did exercises in the water without<br />

getting their hair wet. They watched baseball games together,<br />

something they used to do with their husb<strong>and</strong>s <strong>and</strong> had always<br />

hated but now couldn't get out <strong>of</strong> the habit <strong>of</strong>. The two <strong>of</strong> them had<br />

memorized all the statistics; they'd learned all the catchers' crotchsignals.<br />

Roz gave him your phone number, my gr<strong>and</strong>mother said.<br />

But I have a boyfriend.<br />

Is he a doctor? she said.<br />

No.<br />

Is he a pr<strong>of</strong>essional?<br />

Not really.<br />

Well then, she said <strong>and</strong> hung up in a huff.<br />

I saved used condoms, labeled <strong>and</strong> dated <strong>and</strong> sealed in Zip-Loc<br />

bags in the freezer.<br />

I figured I might need them one day when I was old <strong>and</strong><br />

lonely <strong>and</strong> ugly, dried up between the legs but still wanting kids.<br />

I didn't trust sperm banks. What if there was a power shortage?<br />

What if they went bust? I was a paranoid farmwife stuffing dollar<br />

bills in my mattress.


70<br />

I was dating a fisherman. I liked to go out with him in his boat<br />

early in the morning when he hauled in the nets.<br />

The fish he caught had long eyelashes <strong>and</strong> big sensuous lips.<br />

Gazing out through the gauzy nets they looked like brides behind<br />

their veils waiting to be kissed. The bottom <strong>of</strong> the boat was always<br />

awash in fish blood.<br />

He had a hammer that he sometimes used to bonk them on the<br />

head if they flopped around too much. He liked to stick his fingers<br />

in the slits <strong>of</strong> their gills as they breathed their last breaths. They can't<br />

even feel it, they're already dead, it's just a reflex, he'd say as juicy<br />

fish-flesh pulsed around his fingers, squeezing <strong>and</strong> fluttering.<br />

He had an erection tenting his raincoat. I pretended I didn't see,<br />

but I wanted to bonk it on the head with his hammer.<br />

*<br />

The doctor rang the doorbell at seven. Without saying hello he<br />

sniffed my breath <strong>and</strong> felt my legs with his dry rubbery fingers.<br />

Then he scuttled to the corner <strong>and</strong> crouched there shrieking. There<br />

was nothing I could do to coax him out. Finally I went to bed <strong>and</strong><br />

heard him tearing through the apartment searching for an open<br />

window. In the morning I saw that he had shed fur everywhere <strong>and</strong><br />

urinated on my dishes.<br />

He's shy, my gr<strong>and</strong>mother said. Don't be making snap<br />

judgments.<br />

*<br />

Once, after sharing some moments <strong>of</strong> sticky intimacy with a<br />

man I didn't know too well, we both reached for the spent condom<br />

at the same time.<br />

I'd like a memento to remember you by, I said, thinking: I'll put<br />

it in some ice, rush it home to the freezer to add to the collection,<br />

I'll take a cab, they say the sperm stay alive for at least fifteen<br />

minutes.<br />

I'd like to keep it, to remember you by, he said <strong>and</strong> snatched it<br />

away.<br />

But I couldn't let it drop, he was a good one, too good to pass<br />

up, six foot two with gorgeous thick hair <strong>and</strong> the kind <strong>of</strong> facial<br />

structure that comes from generations <strong>of</strong> careful breeding. I need<br />

genes like his to balance out my own.<br />

And I doubted I'd ever see him again. I had not given one <strong>of</strong> my<br />

best performances.<br />

Oh, but you won't forget me, I said coquettishly.<br />

No, the truth is you won't forget me. But I might need some<br />

help remembering you, he said.<br />

This was unfortunately true, <strong>and</strong> not just because <strong>of</strong> my looks.<br />

His apartment was peppered with yellow post-its reminding him <strong>of</strong><br />

the names <strong>of</strong> things: "thermostat," "smoke detector," "VCR—insert<br />

tape before recording," "milk—check date—month day AND<br />

year."<br />

He showed me a cruddy garbage bag in his closet.<br />

I've saved every single one since 1983, he said.<br />

I let it go.<br />

*<br />

The doctor came again, this time bringing flowers which was a<br />

nice gesture though he ate them all, petal by petal, in the first fifteen<br />

minutes.<br />

His fingers really were extraordinary, they must have had extra<br />

joints. He looked at me with love in his lemur-eyes.<br />

Shy? He's something beyond shy, I told my gr<strong>and</strong>mother.<br />

He's a very bright boy, she snapped. He just doesn't rub it in<br />

people's faces.<br />

I don't think it will work, I said.<br />

Who are you to judge? she said. You, you're a terrible judge <strong>of</strong><br />

character. I know what's good for you. What do you know? You<br />

were dating that man who went to court for being a child molester.<br />

He went to traffic court. For parking tickets.<br />

In a school zone, she said smugly. How can you be so naive?<br />

I'm not naive. I just... I try to think the best <strong>of</strong> people, until<br />

proven otherwise.<br />

Pish. So give the doctor another chance, Miss I'm-So-Open-<br />

Minded.<br />

*<br />

I met a deaf man in my origami class. His cranes were impec-


cable, his creases sharp as blades. His name was Brian. We went on<br />

some dates. It was not as awkward as you might expect. We went<br />

bowling. He could feel the thunder <strong>of</strong> the ball, the crash <strong>of</strong> the pins<br />

vibrating through the floor. He got the full experience, minus the<br />

headache.<br />

We went to movies. He could generally infer what was going<br />

on, unless the acting was particularly wooden. Occasionally I wrote<br />

him little notes about plot points he would otherwise miss, pushed<br />

them onto his lap <strong>and</strong> lit them with a penlight.<br />

Rereading the scrawled notes afterwards was like looking at bad<br />

poetry:<br />

She just said she's his mother.<br />

I know all about you <strong>and</strong> him, he says.<br />

She said: Those weren't vitamins.<br />

All the money was in that suitcase.<br />

I can't go on like this.<br />

I brought the deaf man to Sunday dinner with my family.<br />

Are you sure he's deaf? He doesn't look deaf, my mother said.<br />

His ears look just fine to me, said my father.<br />

Ask him if he likes the meat loaf, my mother said.<br />

Do you like it? I said, but Brian was looking the other way.<br />

But do you love him? my mother said. Can you make a life with<br />

this man?<br />

Can he read lips? my sister asked <strong>and</strong> mouthed, Eat me.<br />

He's nearsighted, I said.<br />

My sister leaned across the table. Her hair fell in the soup. Eat<br />

me. Silently. Lasciviously.<br />

Does he have one <strong>of</strong> those dogs? You know I'm allergic to dogs,<br />

my father said.<br />

My god, Harold. He's deaf not blind, my mother hissed.<br />

Stop talking about him like he's not here, I said. He's not<br />

invisible.<br />

We all turned to look at him. By this point my sister was in his<br />

lap.<br />

Well he certainly seems friendly, my mother said brightly. He<br />

seems to like people.<br />

And he's even house-trained, my father said sarcastically. Stop<br />

talking about him like he's a pet.<br />

We should never have come, I said.<br />

Oh, they're just getting acquainted, my mother said. It must be<br />

his way <strong>of</strong> saying hello.<br />

Brian was running his fingertips over my sister, he was reading<br />

her like Braille, he was skipping straight to the good parts. My<br />

sister had her lips to his ear. What could she possibly be telling him?<br />

I'm sure he's a very nice man, my mother said desperately. She<br />

always turned optimist the minute a situation became hopeless.<br />

We sat politely <strong>and</strong> watched them for a while.<br />

He must be French, isn't he? Or Italian? You know how Italians<br />

are, they kiss everybody. Twice.<br />

No mother, I said <strong>and</strong> stood up to leave. My chair skidded<br />

across the floor, a sound even Brian could feel.<br />

He's just compensating, my mother said, you know, with his<br />

other senses, to make up for his hearing. I've heard they do that. You<br />

know, like seeing, smelling... What else?<br />

Touching, I said. Tasting. Yes, I know, I said. Brian, come, I<br />

called.<br />

He didn't hear me.<br />

I heard you went out with some deaf guy, the fisherman said. It<br />

was four a.m. He was spearing bait on hooks, dropping the nets in<br />

the water.<br />

Oh?<br />

That's what I heard, he said. Did you?<br />

Yes, but I didn't mean it.<br />

You mean it was a fake date?<br />

I did it as a gesture, I guess. I wanted to show that I'm not<br />

prejudiced against people like that.<br />

Well, that's very big <strong>of</strong> you. Have you ever dated a black man?<br />

Or a midget?<br />

No.<br />

Don't you think you should? Are you only dating me because I<br />

never went to college? Reverse-snobbism?


74<br />

You never went to college?<br />

I never finished.<br />

Look, it doesn't matter anyway, because he <strong>and</strong> my sister are<br />

getting married.<br />

Married?<br />

Well, that's what everybody thinks, <strong>and</strong> he hasn't said anything<br />

to the contrary.<br />

Being deaf sounds nice, he said. I almost wish I was.<br />

Why?<br />

Well, you could avoid all <strong>of</strong>... this. Having these, these talks,<br />

you know? The serious talks. The do-I-look-fat questions. You<br />

know? Deaf people are just... excused. I'd like that.<br />

You make noises like a deaf person sometimes, those grunts,<br />

when we're making love.<br />

What an ugly thing to say, he said.<br />

Can I help you?<br />

No. Not yet. You'll have to prove yourself worthy first.<br />

I don't... what is that, anyway?<br />

This? He reached into the bucket <strong>and</strong> pulled out another wet<br />

muscley lump. It bulged between his fingers, there were little strings<br />

hanging <strong>of</strong>f it. This? It's bait.<br />

What was it before it was bait?<br />

He looked at it. It's always been bait. Some things are always<br />

bait. Even when they're walking around or swimming around or<br />

whatever, some things you can just look at <strong>and</strong> know. They're destined<br />

to be chopped up <strong>and</strong> stuck on hooks. Some things are just<br />

born to be used, their whole lives they're just waiting around asking<br />

for it.<br />

The sky was mauving, it was turning the palest shade <strong>of</strong> pearly<br />

pink. The color <strong>of</strong> the pulpy stuff in his h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />

Your sister's really hot, he said. Where'd she get it, is she like<br />

adopted or something?<br />

*<br />

My gr<strong>and</strong>mother came to town. I've got something special<br />

planned for your birthday, she told me.<br />

My birthday's not for another nine months, I said.<br />

I have to do your present now, she said. She did not look good,<br />

there were splotches <strong>of</strong> unusual colors—greens, purples—swimming<br />

under her skin. Her pupils were huge.<br />

Are you high? I said.<br />

I expected her usual squawk <strong>of</strong> incomprehension, but instead<br />

she said: Don't I wish.<br />

She took me to Birnbaum's department store at five o'clock on<br />

a Sunday morning.<br />

But it will be closed, I told her in the cab.<br />

We need to get a good place in line, she said.<br />

Sure enough there was already a crowd outside the doors.<br />

Birnbaum's annual wedding dress sale, she explained.<br />

But I'm not getting married, I said.<br />

But you will, won't you? she said. You'll need one eventually.<br />

Why not get a good deal now? Fifty per cent <strong>of</strong>f, sometimes more.<br />

Why didn't you bring my sister? She's the one getting married.<br />

Says she doesn't want a traditional wedding. You know your<br />

sister, she doesn't need any help.<br />

By eight the crowd had grown sizably. Young women, <strong>and</strong> notso-young<br />

women, with mothers <strong>and</strong> sisters <strong>and</strong> teams <strong>of</strong> friends,<br />

lined up <strong>and</strong> panting at the doors which were due to open early for<br />

the sale.<br />

What you do, my gr<strong>and</strong>mother was saying, is grab as many as<br />

you can. Don't even look, just grab. Then later we can barter.<br />

When the doors were opened, everyone else had the same idea.<br />

We all poured inside, in seconds the racks were swept clean. Then<br />

women lugging sheaves <strong>of</strong> lace <strong>and</strong> white netting began the<br />

bickering <strong>and</strong> tug-<strong>of</strong>-war.<br />

A tall thin man with a gorgeous scarf lifted a dress from my<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s. I snatched it back.<br />

Honey, this will never fit you, he said, it's a size six. He held it<br />

up against his own chest.<br />

I've got time, I'll get there, I told him <strong>and</strong> snatched it back.<br />

In your dreams, he said.<br />

There were no changing rooms in the basement <strong>of</strong> Birnbaum's.<br />

All around us women were stripping down to leotards, sp<strong>and</strong>ex,<br />

underwear, <strong>and</strong> tugging up dresses. Bits <strong>of</strong> white fluff floated


76<br />

through the air like feathers in a henhouse.<br />

I feel dizzy, a voice said <strong>and</strong> I turned <strong>and</strong> saw my gr<strong>and</strong>mother<br />

falling. She fell forward slowly <strong>and</strong> l<strong>and</strong>ed s<strong>of</strong>tly, cushioned by the<br />

puffy tulle skirts <strong>of</strong> the dresses she held. All I could see were her legs;<br />

she looked like a hoop-skirted Victorian lady upended. I saw the<br />

soles <strong>of</strong> her orthopedic shoes, spotless, as if they'd never touched<br />

ground.<br />

Wedding dresses <strong>and</strong> grasping h<strong>and</strong>s frothed on all sides, <strong>and</strong> as<br />

I leaned down to help her a woman with three-inch fingernails got<br />

one <strong>of</strong> them caught on my earring. It was a mess.<br />

Later we learned that she had cracked both kneecaps <strong>and</strong> her<br />

chin-bone on the floor when she l<strong>and</strong>ed. Which is strange because<br />

I remember only s<strong>of</strong>tness <strong>and</strong> light, like those l<strong>and</strong>scapes <strong>of</strong> clouds<br />

you see outside an airplane window, c<strong>and</strong>y-floss or cotton balls or<br />

the fuzzy whiteness suspended in the center <strong>of</strong> ice cubes.<br />

*<br />

My gr<strong>and</strong>mother called from the hospital.<br />

Roz's gr<strong>and</strong>son came to see me, she said. The man's a genius.<br />

What did he say?<br />

He says they're worried about my bones getting brittle, she said.<br />

He says they're worried about my agnosticism.<br />

Do you mean astigmatism?<br />

You heard me.<br />

I didn't know you were agnostic.<br />

Well, it's a bit shaky. He says I need to either firm it up or else<br />

find a way to renew my faith, one or the other. Then I'll feel more<br />

at peace.<br />

What does he know? He's only a doctor.<br />

Would that we were all as perceptive as he is.<br />

He said all this to you? He's never said a word to me, all the<br />

times I've seen him.<br />

I told you, he's shy. You're too hard on people.<br />

I'm not. I'm open-minded...<br />

Open-minded? In my day we called it loose.<br />

That's different. Anyway, it's his fault. He's not normal.<br />

I could swear he has a tail.<br />

And you think you're such a bargain yourself?<br />

The doctor came over, bringing one <strong>of</strong> those bottles <strong>of</strong> wine<br />

that come in a straw basket. Don't I look nice? I said <strong>and</strong> twirled<br />

around to show him just how nice I looked.<br />

He sucked his fingers <strong>and</strong> sighed.<br />

Say something, I told him, say anything.<br />

He looked at me with limpid eyes. His small round nostrils<br />

were choked with hair.<br />

What? I said. Are you mad at me? Is that it? Are you ignoring<br />

me? Fuck you.<br />

But he would not be provoked. He hung upside-down over the<br />

back <strong>of</strong> a chair, chittering <strong>and</strong> moaning. His fingers skittered over<br />

my skin now <strong>and</strong> then, but in the same way that he touched the<br />

table, the walls, the floor. A pressing <strong>and</strong> a pinching, like searching<br />

for larvae under tree bark.<br />

That's it, my patience is at an end, I said. But at the same time<br />

moving closer, positioning <strong>and</strong> angling, hoping the next time he<br />

touched me it might accidentally, miraculously be in the right place.<br />

He must have a weakness somewhere, I thought. A vulnerable<br />

spot. I looked at his long yellow teeth.<br />

Bananas, I thought. Guavas, pomegranates, papayas,<br />

persimmons. Kiwi. Breadfruit.<br />

*<br />

Sometimes the fisherman couldn't even wait to get back to the<br />

docks; he had to start slitting them open right there in the boat.<br />

Look at that, he'd say <strong>and</strong> drape the two fish-halves over my lap.<br />

Isn't that the most beautiful thing?<br />

And it was beautiful, in a way. It was the contrast: the metallic<br />

iridescence outside, the glistening bright slabs <strong>of</strong> muscle within.<br />

Human skin is not half so beautiful as scales; does that mean our<br />

insides are correspondingly ugly as well?<br />

Sometimes we made love right there in the boat. He would have<br />

me lie down on the slippery piles <strong>of</strong> fish, scales <strong>and</strong> fins prickling<br />

right through my clothes, all those wide-open lidless eyes pressing<br />

into the back <strong>of</strong> my neck. And he would rear up above me <strong>and</strong> then<br />

plunge down, again <strong>and</strong> again, making the boat rock crazily. If I<br />

77


looked up the sun seemed to leap from one end <strong>of</strong> the sky to the<br />

other.<br />

You have such a beautiful body, he would say at these times,<br />

you do.<br />

Which is always a lie, I know, it is something people say only<br />

when they want something from you.<br />

But sometimes it is nice to be wanted for a little while.<br />

But I also knew that what he was really saying was: If only you<br />

had a tail like a mermaid. Is that too much to ask? After all I've done<br />

for you, the least you could do ...<br />

Sometimes when we were making love he missed my body<br />

entirely <strong>and</strong> plunged himself deep into the pile <strong>of</strong> fish. He always<br />

pretended it was an accident.<br />

*<br />

I'm so happy, my sister said. Her eyes were manic, forehead<br />

shiny. She was wearing the dress that my gr<strong>and</strong>mother had fallen<br />

on.<br />

I love you, she mouthed to Brian.<br />

Brian smiled <strong>and</strong> said nothing. He'd bleached his teeth for the<br />

wedding, they were a slice <strong>of</strong> brilliant cadmium white in his otherwise<br />

unremarkable face.<br />

What does she see in him anyway? I said. Mom?<br />

But my parents were pretending they'd never had children, they<br />

were waltzing round <strong>and</strong> round the room like a pair <strong>of</strong> wind-up<br />

dolls.<br />

*<br />

I wish my gr<strong>and</strong>mother could have come, I told the doctor,<br />

she's big on weddings.<br />

The doctor hummed quietly <strong>and</strong> made a steeple <strong>of</strong> his fingers.<br />

They were so long <strong>and</strong> skinny it was more <strong>of</strong> an Eiffel Tower.<br />

Has she got her religion settled yet? Have her patellae healed?<br />

He nodded wisely.<br />

Patella's a pretty word, isn't it? Could you name one <strong>of</strong> your<br />

children that? Meet my daughters, Patella <strong>and</strong> Ulna, <strong>and</strong> my son<br />

Tarsal.<br />

He still nodded but I saw sweat breaking out on the broad bare<br />

slope between nose <strong>and</strong> upper lip.<br />

If you're supposed to end up with the person who underst<strong>and</strong>s<br />

you best, I ought to marry my gr<strong>and</strong>mother, I said. Too bad that's<br />

not allowed.<br />

He took my h<strong>and</strong> then between his cool leathery palms.<br />

But they felt like cold dead things, there was no passion in them. I<br />

tried to pull him closer <strong>and</strong> he twisted away <strong>and</strong> ran scampering up<br />

<strong>and</strong> down the woodwork like a spider. He would not let me get<br />

near. He reminded me <strong>of</strong> a nightmare I'd had once as a child, <strong>of</strong> all<br />

my pictures sprouting little black ant legs <strong>and</strong> running across my<br />

bedroom walls. Damn him for reminding me <strong>of</strong> that dream; now<br />

I'd have it again.<br />

And would he be there in the middle <strong>of</strong> the night with his furry<br />

arms held open when I woke up screaming? Of course not.<br />

I thought <strong>of</strong> a basket, upside-down, propped up on a stick tied<br />

to a long string, with bananas <strong>and</strong> papayas inside. Sometimes the<br />

only solutions are the simplest ones.<br />

*<br />

He started leaving flowers on my doorstep every day. And other<br />

things he thought I might like. Tanning cream, Florida water, halva.<br />

A cyst in a jar <strong>of</strong> formaldehyde, one he'd removed from somebody's<br />

ovary <strong>and</strong> which looked exactly like Mother Teresa.<br />

My gr<strong>and</strong>mother called from the hospital <strong>and</strong> said: He's not<br />

seeing anyone else, you know. Only you. You're a lucky duck.<br />

I lay in wait for him, the end <strong>of</strong> the string in my sweaty h<strong>and</strong>,<br />

but could never catch him. The fruit was green, then ripe, then<br />

overripe, then rotten. Rotten fruit smells the sweetest <strong>of</strong> all.<br />

*<br />

What's this I hear about you seeing a doctor? he said as soon as<br />

we were out on the water. Gulls were circling the boat. There were<br />

no fish in it, not yet. But they weren't stupid. They knew what was<br />

coming.<br />

I did it for my gr<strong>and</strong>mother, I said. She gets a charge out <strong>of</strong><br />

playing matchmaker.<br />

And I suppose it had nothing to do with the fact that he's a big<br />

79


8o<br />

fancy doctor?<br />

Not at all, I said. All he did was bring flowers <strong>and</strong> make<br />

messes in my house, pull down curtains.<br />

I liked the way he was looking at me, head-on <strong>and</strong> wide-awake<br />

in a way he usually only looked at a very large fish that refused to<br />

die.<br />

Are you jealous? I said.<br />

No, he said after a long pause. Not at all.<br />

Why not?<br />

Why? Because you'll always come back, that's why. Because I'm<br />

a hot thing in a cold world <strong>and</strong> you'll always come back like the<br />

proverbial moth to flame. Go run around with these deaf dumb <strong>and</strong><br />

blind monkeys <strong>of</strong> yours, I don't give a damn. You'll always come<br />

back <strong>and</strong> you know it.<br />

He underst<strong>and</strong>s me better than you do, I said. I can talk to him.<br />

Oh, I underst<strong>and</strong> you fine, he said. I underst<strong>and</strong> just as much<br />

about you as I want to, I don't want to know any more. It would<br />

only disgust me.<br />

How do you know?<br />

And talk? Who needs talk? What's talk but a way <strong>of</strong> filling up<br />

the time between doing one thing <strong>and</strong> doing another? Might as well<br />

play solitaire.<br />

Now was the time for a dramatic exit, some screaming <strong>and</strong><br />

some slammed doors. But we were in a boat in the middle <strong>of</strong> the<br />

ocean. I longed for a helicopter, some waxen wings, a trapdoor in<br />

the sky.<br />

You feel alive when you're with me, he said. The rest <strong>of</strong> the time<br />

you're just pretending. I know I'm talking cliches, I do it on purpose.<br />

I don't want to waste brain-energy on conversation, I'm conserving<br />

it for more important things. I'm not as stupid as you think.<br />

All morning I watched <strong>and</strong> he hauled in the fish, holding them<br />

flopping in his arms before clubbing them still. You'll have to prove<br />

yourself, he said, <strong>and</strong> then you can help me.<br />

*<br />

The doctor's flowers stopped coming.<br />

He must have finally given up, my gr<strong>and</strong>mother said over the<br />

phone. Did you refuse him? You heartless girl. I haven't seen him for<br />

several days myself, I miss him.<br />

Why are you still in the hospital?<br />

Oh, complications. You know how they say. Cracked cuticles.<br />

Head, heart. Tired, tired. I have a boyfriend here, did you know? A<br />

nice young orderly named Phil. He says he admires my red red hair.<br />

*<br />

We were out on the boat. The east was all gaudy zebra-striped<br />

purple <strong>and</strong> orange. I looked at it <strong>and</strong> thought, Miami, though I've<br />

never been to Miami.<br />

I was wearing a raincoat <strong>of</strong> his, his own favorite wool cap. He<br />

had given me his own pet knife to use, the one with the queerly<br />

shaped curving blade. We were baiting the nets.<br />

This bait seems different today, I said. What is it?<br />

It's the same as always, he said. Like I told you before, bait's just<br />

bait. It's bait from the minute it's born. You don't believe me? You<br />

ever look at a cow up close? You go look at a cow, go look up close<br />

in those big dumb sad cow eyes, <strong>and</strong> then try to tell me it ain't just<br />

Burger King killing time.<br />

No, this bait is different, I said, where did you get it?<br />

Big eyes like yours, he said. Sweetheart.<br />

I knew I recognized something about it, a bit <strong>of</strong> cool smooth<br />

leathery hide, the bits <strong>of</strong> fur here <strong>and</strong> there, familiar.<br />

Where did you get it?<br />

You know where I got it, he said. Don't you play dumb. I ain't<br />

biting.<br />

*<br />

And now you might be thinking <strong>of</strong> the overturned basket, <strong>and</strong><br />

the stick, <strong>and</strong> the string, <strong>and</strong> long fingers reaching out for the<br />

pomegranate seeds, the string tugging, stick jerking, basket falling,<br />

a sudden artificial night sky, chinks <strong>of</strong> light like stars in the wicker<br />

dome, stink <strong>of</strong> rotting fruit.<br />

Which all translates into complicity, <strong>and</strong> baited hooks, <strong>and</strong><br />

later a fresh fish mattress, two raincoats rubbing <strong>and</strong> squeaking on<br />

top <strong>of</strong> it. And so on <strong>and</strong> so on like this, day after day. Because to<br />

some people this moment together on the boat is the only real thing


82<br />

in life, <strong>and</strong> everything else is without value, is just filler. Foam<br />

packing. Polystyrene peanuts.<br />

*<br />

But you might also think that I wasn't playing dumb, that I<br />

didn't know any more than you up to that point. And you might<br />

think <strong>of</strong> the many sharp objects in the boat, the hooks <strong>and</strong> knives,<br />

his own special very sharp knife with the curving blade. And there's<br />

the hammer, remember.<br />

You might think <strong>of</strong> the nets, <strong>and</strong> a length <strong>of</strong> chain around one<br />

ankle, <strong>and</strong> the heavy three-pronged anchor. He is a big man, <strong>and</strong><br />

cumbersome, but it is not inconceivable. You read those Reader's<br />

Digest stories about women (it's always women) who in extreme<br />

circumstances find the superhuman adrenalized strength to lift cars<br />

or wrestle bears to save their loved ones.<br />

It is not inconceivable to imagine him suspended at the bottom<br />

<strong>of</strong> the ocean, fish eating away his flesh a nibble at a time, so that at<br />

first he looks pockmarked, then leprous, <strong>and</strong> then he is like coral,<br />

full <strong>of</strong> tiny channels that the tiniest fish can swim through, <strong>and</strong> they<br />

nibble away until there is nothing left <strong>of</strong> him but the eyes, left flat<br />

<strong>and</strong> lidless as a fish's to witness what he has become.<br />

Poetic justice, you might say. Perfect. Too neat to be believable.<br />

But then it's a fitting end, isn't it, for someone who went through<br />

life talking cliches.<br />

It all depends on what you think <strong>of</strong> me, I suppose. I would<br />

hope you'd be willing to think the best <strong>of</strong> me, at least until proven<br />

otherwise. Don't be making snap judgements, as my gr<strong>and</strong>mother<br />

says.<br />

-LAURIE SHECK<br />

from Black Series: Driving Home<br />

Here in this decentered light, this sizzling, reeling hum,<br />

I remember the moon's face, its calm remove, or so it seemed,<br />

its white volition. Here there are "selling points,"<br />

here, as the car radio tells me, there are "stopgap measures"<br />

to be taken, <strong>and</strong> tradings <strong>and</strong> loans.<br />

Once the night was medicinal. Doctorly, it leaned.<br />

I felt its starched coat against my cheek, its stethoscope<br />

measuring. The heartbeats came steadily, trusting<br />

what would meet them; I sensed their quiet<br />

venturing, each hushed <strong>and</strong> embryonic expedition.<br />

They weren't like weapons inspectors<br />

alert to subterfuge, sniffing out concealment.<br />

Wariness stood to the side, only watching;<br />

she seemed undesirous <strong>of</strong> speech, peering<br />

through the night's lullaby walls, much like a pauper.<br />

This night sky's a delirium pulsing<br />

with buzzing neon signs, <strong>and</strong> the dizzying auras they breed.<br />

The faces beneath them pass in strangeness, they go <strong>and</strong> come<br />

<strong>and</strong> pause in leery strangeness, hybrids <strong>of</strong> neon <strong>and</strong> flesh,<br />

the light filtering into their hair, gliding under<br />

their skin, sipping at their eyes, their lips.<br />

It is so thirsty, the neon, leaning down onto my windshield,<br />

where my face can neither give consent<br />

nor recoil <strong>and</strong> disallow its touch.


84<br />

Sound-bites labor through the air, configuring<br />

then fading, passing through this line <strong>of</strong> cars,<br />

rising into somewhere we can't see.<br />

All the pastures <strong>of</strong> clicking channels drifting in the netted dark;<br />

in one a bidding war, in one the newest gadget,<br />

latest craze. And netted, too, the small voice <strong>of</strong> self<br />

saying I am tangled <strong>and</strong> encoded, saying I am wave-toss, I am riddle,<br />

bridled wind. The self that is like lightning flaring through a lullaby,<br />

while Venus glides above us, <strong>and</strong> above us, too, all the unimaginable planets,<br />

their blameless light so far from here, so wordless, unconstrained.<br />

-LAURIE SHECK<br />

from Black Series: The Mannequins<br />

How can they know uncertainty, the mannequins,<br />

as they st<strong>and</strong> behind their glass, austere<br />

as apothecary jars lined up on dusted shelves,<br />

the radium-glow <strong>of</strong> the window distilling their whitenesses,<br />

faintest residue <strong>of</strong> fingerprints crumbled <strong>and</strong> releasing?<br />

The night air is mossy on my skin, a s<strong>of</strong>t confusing mouth,<br />

but they have been propped in their poses where gesture is already elegy,<br />

stiff in the elemental light <strong>of</strong> their withdrawal. The window is a cargo boat,<br />

an edict authorizing a cold reflected stillness.<br />

Outside their world is the fragility <strong>of</strong> movement,<br />

metonymic displacements, as leaves <strong>of</strong> the black poplar<br />

mix with the music from high buildings<br />

that filters down, torn <strong>and</strong> partial, out <strong>of</strong> its first tenderness.<br />

Footsteps, sirens, slamming doors, tatoo<br />

this frameless night I walk through, its harsh economy <strong>of</strong> rumor <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> wind.<br />

Backlit <strong>and</strong> leaning toward the street, the mannequins<br />

look almost curious, as if wondering how it feels to be complicit<br />

with the ebb <strong>and</strong> flow <strong>of</strong> light, how a face<br />

can't discern itself; its territories shift <strong>and</strong> are shadowed,<br />

a shore that wavers, its conduct ever conscripting,<br />

raw <strong>and</strong> s<strong>of</strong>t with trespass.


86<br />

If a voice never stuttered, if the air were smooth <strong>and</strong> smooth only,<br />

how horrible the surfaces would be then, shiny lures<br />

pinned to a board, never touching water.<br />

Heel-clicks. Leaf-fall. Jangling keys.<br />

I feel the cracked asphalt under my shoes, all the breakages<br />

kindled <strong>and</strong> released by motion. This night filled with edges<br />

<strong>and</strong> with shirts. My skin inside it, my skin its creature,<br />

while the smooth unstarded mannequins st<strong>and</strong> whitely in dieir windows<br />

that shine like computer screens, incarnate <strong>and</strong> withheld.<br />

—THE COLUMBIA INTERVIEW<br />

Between the Poles <strong>of</strong> Biting & Earnest:<br />

an interview with George Saunders<br />

MATTHEW DERBY FOR COLUMBIA: If one generalization could be<br />

made <strong>of</strong> your fiction, it is that you tend to write about people at<br />

work. From the male stripper in "Sea Oak," the caveman narrator<br />

<strong>of</strong> "Pastoralia," the guy stuck administering 'drive-thru h<strong>and</strong>jobs' in<br />

"Bounty" <strong>and</strong>, <strong>of</strong> course, the hapless raccoon exterminator in "The<br />

400 Pound CEO," the central narrative tension seems generated by<br />

the anxiety <strong>and</strong> frustration brought on by increasingly humiliating<br />

employment options. What makes the act <strong>of</strong> work such fertile<br />

narrative ground for you?<br />

GEORGE SAUNDERS: I'm not sure but I think it's just that, first, it's<br />

the dominant thing in American life. It's almost all people do, <strong>and</strong><br />

we do so much <strong>of</strong> it, too much <strong>of</strong> it maybe, <strong>and</strong> most always for<br />

someone else's improvement rather than our own. Of course we get<br />

paid <strong>and</strong> support ourselves <strong>and</strong> so on, but if you look at the typical<br />

work day, all the toil <strong>and</strong> boredom etc., <strong>and</strong> then you look at how<br />

indirectly we are compensated—I think it's odd, <strong>and</strong> a source <strong>of</strong> real<br />

discomfort <strong>and</strong> even madness. Second <strong>of</strong> all, if you look at work, or<br />

write about work, <strong>and</strong> you are living in a capitalist society,<br />

then you are de facto looking at issues <strong>of</strong> sisterhood <strong>and</strong> brotherhood<br />

... competition for scarce resources <strong>and</strong>, by extrapolation,<br />

about the nature <strong>of</strong> our responsibilities towards one another. Most<br />

<strong>of</strong> us start working early <strong>and</strong> keep on working forever, <strong>and</strong> so I guess<br />

it would seem weird to me if work wasn't the dominant thing in my<br />

fiction.


MD: Your work seems trained on a political trajectory in a way that<br />

many <strong>of</strong> your contemporaries seem to resist. The theme-park<br />

environments in which many <strong>of</strong> your characters operate call up the<br />

bleak private-as-public totality <strong>of</strong> the contemporary mega-mall. You<br />

seem also to return <strong>of</strong>ten to the theme <strong>of</strong> the loss <strong>of</strong> private space,<br />

or its usurpation by unseen, omnipotent corporate entities—the<br />

employees in "Pastoralia," for example, pay to defecate, are<br />

permitted to eat only when food is delivered to them, <strong>and</strong> are urged<br />

to "think positive/say positive." Do you feel your stories reflect or<br />

amplify our current cultural anxiety about the influence <strong>of</strong> big<br />

business?<br />

GS: Well, whatever political content my stories have comes out <strong>of</strong><br />

the personal. That is, I don't 'intend' for the stories to be political,<br />

exactly. But my experience <strong>of</strong> life has been political, in the sense that<br />

the most intense humiliations <strong>and</strong> difficulties I've experienced have<br />

always had to do with jobs <strong>and</strong> a lack <strong>of</strong> resources, <strong>and</strong> with what<br />

seems to me a sort <strong>of</strong> cultural blindness around these issues. So<br />

when I try to write my way towards emotional vividness, I gravitate<br />

towards these things. For example: I spent eight years working for a<br />

small engineering company in Rochester, New York. I was a<br />

technical writer, technically, but this meant a lot <strong>of</strong> photocopying<br />

<strong>and</strong> filing <strong>and</strong> general Toadying. And this was at a time when our<br />

kids were babies. And we had no money saved at all <strong>and</strong> were renting<br />

apartments <strong>and</strong> our cars were always breaking down. Plus my<br />

bosses, both locally <strong>and</strong> nationally, were, <strong>of</strong> course, richer than us,<br />

<strong>and</strong> more at ease in the world, in this annoying right-wing way, <strong>and</strong><br />

it was just starting to dawn on me that if I, a middle-class, collegeeducated<br />

white guy, who was reasonably bright <strong>and</strong> personal, was<br />

struggling to make it (<strong>and</strong> feeling so much associated psychological<br />

yuckiness), then there must be a country full <strong>of</strong> people feeling this<br />

way or worse. And out <strong>of</strong> that came the first book, which was<br />

really a compressed distillation <strong>of</strong> that time. My life was not<br />

miserable at all, relative to most lives in the world, but the effect<br />

that minor-level miserableness had on me (due to my perhaps<br />

unreasonable expectations about my own life) combined to give me<br />

a little empathetic push towards those who were (really) less<br />

fortunate.<br />

So my sense <strong>of</strong> a writer is that he or she, having lived the life <strong>of</strong><br />

the culture with his or her eyes wide open, <strong>and</strong> having refined<br />

certain gifts (verbal, narrative) through long training, then serves as<br />

a sort <strong>of</strong> canary-in-the-coal-mine, asking questions like: What is the<br />

particular nature <strong>of</strong> our cultural suffering/triumph? How are our<br />

cultural defects related to our cultural victories? Who are the<br />

weinies who are causing all this misery, <strong>and</strong> under what conditions<br />

am I one <strong>of</strong> them? Implicit in all this, I suppose, is the idea that our<br />

public institutions—our companies <strong>and</strong> our government <strong>and</strong> our<br />

media—absolutely affect our ability to exist gracefully in the world.<br />

And so we should constantly be whacking these institutions in the<br />

shins so they behave better, <strong>and</strong> recognizing that these institutions<br />

absolutely do not exist separately from ourselves, but exist within<br />

us, <strong>and</strong> that the 'real' media/government/corporations are only<br />

manifestations <strong>of</strong> these internal ones.<br />

MD: You're a satirist as well—what sort <strong>of</strong> tensions arise when you<br />

try to cleave this trenchant social commentary with a very personal,<br />

emotional element, <strong>and</strong> then make it all so incredibly funny? I<br />

suppose I'm asking a craft question here: how do you keep these<br />

worlds simultaneously al<strong>of</strong>t?<br />

GS: I'll answer this with a cheesy dating analogy. Say someone<br />

decided it was time to get married, <strong>and</strong> began constructing a large<br />

database which listed every woman he knew, <strong>and</strong> all their positive<br />

<strong>and</strong> negative attributes, including Long-Range Aging Projections,<br />

<strong>and</strong> Projected Bliss Quotients At Time <strong>of</strong> Birth <strong>of</strong> First Child, <strong>and</strong><br />

Likely Retirement Attitudinal Deductions <strong>and</strong> so on. That person<br />

could not possibly control all those elements <strong>and</strong> engineer a decent<br />

marriage. Whereas, if a person was simply guided by passion (he<br />

absolutely could not stop thinking <strong>of</strong> a certain woman, say) then all<br />

<strong>of</strong> those complicated questions <strong>and</strong> calculations <strong>and</strong> projections<br />

would be subsumed/consumed by the fact that: He Simply Must.<br />

In fiction, this means that your line-by-line passion (for tight language,<br />

or funny language, or lyric language, whatever) leads you<br />

forward <strong>and</strong>, if you honor it, it will, in time, subsume/consume all


concerns about Plot, Character, Theme etc., etc. And then the<br />

process <strong>of</strong> coming into your own as a writer has to do mostly with<br />

finding out what that guiding passion is going to be, exactly, <strong>and</strong><br />

finding it out not intellectually or reductively, but viscerally.<br />

I'm not sure if that answers your question, but I guess my point<br />

here is that I try to 'control' my writing as little as possible—at least<br />

intellectually. I think the control (the non-r<strong>and</strong>omness) comes from<br />

intense rewriting. When you're rewriting, you are exerting a sort <strong>of</strong><br />

3-D visceral, full-body control over the work that is wonderful<br />

because it's not just "head control." It's surprising <strong>and</strong> non-linear<br />

<strong>and</strong> comes from the subconscious. So your stories can end up being<br />

smarter than you are which, in my case, is a tremendous benefit.<br />

And in this mode, you find that things you thought were<br />

opposed <strong>and</strong> irreconcilable (satire <strong>and</strong> earnestness, in my case) are<br />

actually two manifestations <strong>of</strong> the same energy.<br />

MD: You tend to play with euphemism <strong>of</strong>ten—again, I'm thinking<br />

<strong>of</strong> "Pastoralia" here, with the "Daily Partner Performance<br />

Evaluation Forms," the "Client Vignette Evaluations," "Human<br />

Refuse Bags," <strong>and</strong> so on. Why are you drawn to this sort <strong>of</strong><br />

corporate jargon, a language Don Delillo has referred to as<br />

"hold[ing] <strong>of</strong>f reality while at the same time trying to fit it into a<br />

formal pattern"? Does it perform a similar function in the worlds<br />

you create?<br />

GS: I'm not really sure why I'm drawn to euphemisms. When I<br />

think about it in an honest way, as opposed to the usual way I think<br />

about things, I come up with a suite <strong>of</strong> influences that seem to have<br />

fed this tendency, including: 1) my father's use <strong>of</strong> comic acronyms<br />

when we were kids (for example, when I was working at his<br />

restaurant as a delivery boy, <strong>and</strong> orders were starting to back up, he'd<br />

say: HIMF! Which meant, depending on when you asked him,<br />

either: Hit It, My Friend, or Hit It... well, you know); 2) George<br />

Orwell's essay "Politics <strong>and</strong> the English Language," which first made<br />

me cognizant <strong>of</strong> the idea <strong>of</strong> language as political tool <strong>and</strong> political<br />

indicator; 3) my own experience in corporations, where it became<br />

clear that acronyms <strong>and</strong> euphemisms were elaborate ways <strong>of</strong> talking<br />

around unpleasant realities or hiding agendas; 4) things I've read<br />

about Nazi Germany <strong>and</strong> Stalinist Russia, where these tendencies<br />

were at their most exaggerated <strong>and</strong> catastrophic.<br />

But the bottom line is, I use the jargon <strong>and</strong> euphemisms, etc.,<br />

because I think they're funny. It seems to me important to<br />

distinguish between a writer's after-the-fact underst<strong>and</strong>ing <strong>of</strong> what<br />

he or she has done <strong>and</strong> the time-<strong>of</strong>-writing experience. These are<br />

vastly different, at least for me. At the time <strong>of</strong> writing, it's all about<br />

pleasure <strong>and</strong> writing towards a certain kind <strong>of</strong> intensity, <strong>and</strong> a<br />

million visceral second-by-second judgments <strong>of</strong> what you've done,<br />

<strong>and</strong> rapid gut-level changes <strong>and</strong> all <strong>of</strong> that. In other words, it's about<br />

tricking the conscious mind into silence so that the subconscious<br />

can take over <strong>and</strong> surprise you with what it knows. Afterwards I<br />

think you can construct intellectual concepts about what you've<br />

done, but I think it's important to recognize these as such—as concepts,<br />

constructed by the conscious mind, in its ongoing effort to<br />

keep us close to the shore.<br />

MD: Is Orwell a stylistic influence?<br />

GS: I think Orwell is one <strong>of</strong> the most insightful <strong>and</strong> clear-seeing<br />

writers <strong>and</strong> men <strong>of</strong> the twentieth century—ahead <strong>of</strong> the curve on<br />

Stalin <strong>and</strong> the Spanish Civil War, always running ahead <strong>of</strong> the<br />

Liberal Intellectuals via intellectual honesty.<br />

MD: Most <strong>of</strong> your stories are set in a stark, dystopian near-future<br />

that shares many features with Orwell's vision <strong>of</strong> the totalitarian<br />

nightmare, but the dread is different, somehow—it's much more<br />

internal <strong>and</strong> intangible. How has his writing informed the larger<br />

narrative properties <strong>of</strong> your work?<br />

GS: I read Animal Farm <strong>and</strong> 1984 in high school <strong>and</strong> again, I think,<br />

in college, <strong>and</strong> my guess is something in me was liberated by the<br />

idea that this sort <strong>of</strong> satire could be <strong>Art</strong>. Although I also remember<br />

finding him a little serious <strong>and</strong> dry, <strong>and</strong> also being put-<strong>of</strong>f a bit by<br />

how linear the satire is, as if he knew the Object <strong>of</strong> Satire before<br />

starting. What I've found fun is to not be exactly sure what I am


92<br />

writing 'against'—then, in the process <strong>of</strong> writing, you find out. Or,<br />

like in "Bounty," I would constantly be changing what I 'thought' I<br />

was writing about, so that, in the end, the object <strong>of</strong> the satire is<br />

human tendency, rather than one particular political or cultural<br />

manifestation <strong>of</strong> that tendency. The places where Orwell really<br />

connects with me is when his satire broadens this way. I also found<br />

"Politics <strong>and</strong> the English Language" incredibly important <strong>and</strong><br />

liberating. As I said earlier—it gave me a theoretical way to look at<br />

a tendency I'd noted <strong>and</strong> felt drawn to.<br />

MD: Yes, you seem less concerned with the Object <strong>of</strong> the satire, as<br />

you've termed it, than with the personal, emotional damage sown<br />

by the Object. What makes this territory more appealing to you<br />

from a narrative st<strong>and</strong>point?<br />

GS: To me, the 'enemy is human tendency—that is, the enemy is us.<br />

Sometimes those tendencies cluster into systems—communism,<br />

materialism, fascism—which I think are die sorts <strong>of</strong> things a more<br />

classical <strong>and</strong> talented satirist like Orwell would take on—but I find<br />

myself more interested in the tendencies themselves, as they<br />

manifest, in unnamed, unclustered, <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong>ten embryonic form. I'm<br />

interested, to put it rather gr<strong>and</strong>iosely, in what the American<br />

genocide would look like <strong>and</strong> sound like <strong>and</strong> am operating on the<br />

theory that, if there is such a thing, the seeds <strong>of</strong> it would be<br />

apparent right now. But again, I'm sort <strong>of</strong> talking nonsense—this is<br />

the after-the-fact type <strong>of</strong> literary analysis that assumes the writer<br />

knew what he was doing before he started, which, believe me, I<br />

didn't <strong>and</strong> don't. Mostly it goes back to that idea <strong>of</strong> steering towards<br />

the heat. Which is not to say the finished product has nothing to do<br />

with what you believe or who you are—it's just that, having written<br />

in that way, you reveal something about what you believe or who<br />

you are that would not have been readily apparent to your conscious<br />

mind.<br />

MD: Who else do you count among your influences?<br />

GS: The whole idea <strong>of</strong> influences is an interesting one. When<br />

CivilWarL<strong>and</strong>first came out, <strong>and</strong> I was first in the position <strong>of</strong> being<br />

asked about influences, I found myself making stuff up. I hadn't<br />

read very much Kafka at that point, or any Nathaniel West, almost<br />

no Gogol, but because people were mentioning these writers in connection<br />

with my work, I found myself claiming more influence than<br />

there actually was. The way I think influence works is that something<br />

dormant in the artist is nudged awake—sometimes by the<br />

work itself, sometimes by only a portion <strong>of</strong> a work, sometimes by a<br />

description <strong>of</strong> the work, sometimes by the artist's mental<br />

construction <strong>of</strong> a work s/he doesn't know yet (that is, a place in the<br />

artist's mental filing system is occupied by a certain projective idea).<br />

Also interesting is the whole idea <strong>of</strong> minor or guilty influences, or<br />

<strong>of</strong> being influenced by cultural products that aren't seen by the artist<br />

as being particularly 'good' but which are ubiquitous (in our generation,<br />

the rash <strong>of</strong> I960-1970s sitcoms etc.). In any event, I've<br />

begun to think that the mechanics <strong>of</strong> influence goes something like<br />

this: a budding artist has a certain neurologic prewiring. Works <strong>of</strong><br />

art, culture, other people, good days, bad days, overheard bits <strong>of</strong><br />

conversation, archetypal situations, particularly cool photos <strong>of</strong><br />

famous artists, etc., etc., all react on this basic neurology, <strong>and</strong> the<br />

overall effect is to coax out <strong>of</strong> this neurology some latent tendency,<br />

some fulfillment. We work towards a spontaneous expression <strong>of</strong> that<br />

neurology. And if that isn't New Age enough for you, I would say<br />

that what is really happening is this: the gazillion brains in the world<br />

are all built on the same design <strong>and</strong> all basically work the same way.<br />

So when I 'admire' or 'idolize' or 'attempt to emulate,' say, Kafka,<br />

there is something pr<strong>of</strong>ound going on. My brain is recognizing a<br />

pattern from Kafka's brain <strong>and</strong> is responding to it—it is not absurd<br />

to say that Kafka's brain is subcontained in my brain, <strong>and</strong> vice-versa,<br />

although, believe me, you won't hear me saying it.<br />

MD: Though it's extremely unusual for an established literary<br />

fiction author to switch genres in order to write a book geared, at<br />

least on the surface, towards young adults, it seems a fitting<br />

gesture, given what you've said about 'steering towards the heat.'<br />

There's this history <strong>of</strong> quietly subversive children's books, <strong>and</strong> The<br />

Very Persistent Gappers <strong>of</strong> Frip fits comfortably into this tradition.<br />

93


94<br />

I'm interested in how you came to write the book <strong>and</strong> what sort <strong>of</strong><br />

literary models, if any, you looked at in preparation ...<br />

GS: I didn't consciously study any examples, but I have two daughters<br />

<strong>and</strong> so over the last ten years had the chance to read some good<br />

ones ... Roald Dahl, <strong>of</strong> course, <strong>and</strong> Dr. Seuss, <strong>and</strong> Kipling's Just So<br />

Stories, <strong>and</strong> Rootabaga Stories by Carl S<strong>and</strong>burg... I also had Monty<br />

Python in the back <strong>of</strong> my mind, I guess, <strong>and</strong> the movie version <strong>of</strong><br />

The Princess Bride. When my daughters were younger I invented<br />

this little girl character whose name the four <strong>of</strong> us have sworn to<br />

keep secret from the world <strong>and</strong> every now <strong>and</strong> then I would ad-lib<br />

a story about her ... the Frip book came out <strong>of</strong> these stories in the<br />

sense that I acquired a pretty good idea <strong>of</strong> what would fly. The<br />

world that evolved had the sane girl at the center <strong>and</strong> everyone else,<br />

including her brother <strong>and</strong> parents <strong>and</strong> neighbors, were sort <strong>of</strong> out<br />

<strong>of</strong> their minds. And we had a lot <strong>of</strong> fun with that, <strong>and</strong> I would use<br />

all sorts <strong>of</strong> literary riffs <strong>and</strong> exaggerated alternate worlds <strong>and</strong><br />

disgusting fart jokes <strong>and</strong> complicated syntax <strong>and</strong> the only time I felt<br />

my kids were let down was when I would try to make the story neat<br />

or moralistic, or would ab<strong>and</strong>on my mad ad-libbing <strong>and</strong> try to<br />

know in advance what was going to happen. So I hope that the Frip<br />

book was just the beginning <strong>of</strong> a series <strong>of</strong> books that, relative to my<br />

'adult' books, are a little more whimsical <strong>and</strong> unreal. I'm working on<br />

one now that involves a race <strong>of</strong> half-human/half-machines who<br />

commit genocide on another race <strong>of</strong> half-human/half-machines, led<br />

by a sort <strong>of</strong> corporate Stalinist. So that's sure to corner the kiddy<br />

book market, or at least that portion <strong>of</strong> it that is interested in fascist<br />

sadism <strong>and</strong> very long sentences.<br />

MD: I think children are such effective narrative barometers—as<br />

you mentioned, they sense when things are getting too pat <strong>and</strong><br />

didactic, because they haven't yet been taught that this is what<br />

makes 'good art.' To what extent has your experience as a parent<br />

informed your other work?<br />

GS: What having kids did for me was reawaken my sense that life<br />

was morally charged. I was never exactly a libertine or anything, but<br />

in my twenties I had this terrible liberal humanist sense that everything<br />

essential had been said <strong>and</strong> done <strong>and</strong> that nothing we did<br />

really mattered much, really, <strong>and</strong> so life was reduced to various sorts<br />

<strong>of</strong> pleasure-grubbing <strong>and</strong> attention-seeking <strong>and</strong> so on. Then, when<br />

our daughters were born, everything seemed critical <strong>and</strong> important<br />

again. There was this sort <strong>of</strong> morality <strong>of</strong> extrapolation at work:<br />

I love this baby, everyone was once a baby, therefore everyone was<br />

once loved like this, therefore everyone matters. Or: this baby is<br />

blameless <strong>and</strong> perfect, ergo, all babies are blameless <strong>and</strong> perfect, <strong>and</strong><br />

so at what moment does a person become blameworthy? Whereas<br />

pre-baby, I really couldn't come up with any logical reason to<br />

abstain from drugs, promiscuity, Macbethian ambition, etc., <strong>and</strong><br />

felt like I abstained basically out <strong>of</strong> a dull sense <strong>of</strong> habitual<br />

Decency, I (post babies) suddenly saw that I did not want my babies<br />

devalued in any way, or forced to live their lives beneath their<br />

potential. In other words, all, or at least many <strong>of</strong> the verities were<br />

confirmed via this morality <strong>of</strong> personal worth: what would I want<br />

for my children? I became an instant feminist, by reacting<br />

viscerally to my sense that the world was attempting to limit my<br />

children's personhood by slapping the 'just a girl' label on them, etc.<br />

Foreign policy became easier: Was it possible that Iranians/Russians/Bosnians,<br />

etc. loved their kids less than I loved mine? I felt<br />

like, for the first time, I understood my purpose in the world, which<br />

was to reproduce, <strong>and</strong> then protect my children. So then I felt that<br />

whatever verbal gifts I had were subjugated to this new moral sense:<br />

I had, in other words, something to say, for maybe the first time in<br />

my life.<br />

I can't seem to say this stuff in any way that doesn't sound like<br />

Kahlil Gibran on quaaludes, but it was (<strong>and</strong> is) very real.<br />

MD: Does the sort <strong>of</strong> ad-libbed riffing that spawned Gappers show<br />

itself elsewhere?<br />

GS: The ad-libbing is something that I do all the time in my work,<br />

but <strong>of</strong> course followed by its opposite, anal-retentive-libbing, which<br />

is a form <strong>of</strong> editing done by something called the Inner Nun, who<br />

hates everything you've been ad-libbing <strong>and</strong> very sternly edits it<br />

95


96<br />

down to its essential arc while slapping your wrist with a ruler <strong>and</strong><br />

tsk-tsking.<br />

MD: The tone <strong>of</strong> Pastomlia seems to follow a tonal trajectory from<br />

the loopy, funhouse architecture <strong>of</strong> the title story through to the<br />

dark, nightmarish <strong>and</strong> uncharacteristically realist image that closes<br />

"The Falls," with Morse leaping into the frigid water to save the<br />

girls. In general, Pastomlia is markedly more earnest than<br />

CivilWarL<strong>and</strong> in its attempt to locate the sort <strong>of</strong> innate human<br />

decency you mentioned earlier. Do you see yourself gravitating<br />

more towards this impulse in future writings? I ask only because it<br />

seems the satirist's burden to constantly buck this sort <strong>of</strong> trend ...<br />

GS: Well, I'm not sure. I find myself careening back <strong>and</strong> forth<br />

between the poles <strong>of</strong> Biting <strong>and</strong> Earnest. I feel at the moment a<br />

little more Biting than Earnest, possibly because <strong>of</strong> having finished<br />

Pastoralia, but I guess I'd rather pretend that this polarity doesn't<br />

really exist... because if you cling too much to a perceived polarity,<br />

you risk inhabiting it too simply. That is, you become either Biting<br />

or Earnest, purely, instead <strong>of</strong> some newish combo <strong>of</strong> these. And the<br />

actual writing presents itself in so many ways—I almost never think<br />

about it in terms <strong>of</strong> earnestness, but rather stylistically—having<br />

written a sentence in a certain tone implies some relation <strong>of</strong> all the<br />

following sentences to that first one, <strong>and</strong> so I mostly am working to<br />

avoid Tonal Violation. In this way, each sentence is a sort <strong>of</strong> DNAtype<br />

small unit, which contains or presages the whole piece. And the<br />

related tone (Biting or Earnest) results from this, rather than from<br />

any 'decision.'<br />

MD: Going back to what you said about establishing a tone in a<br />

sentence <strong>and</strong> then leading each successive sentence back to<br />

it—which stories have given you the most difficult time, utilizing<br />

this method? In other words, have you found yourself having to<br />

drastically readjust the way you work through a story based on the<br />

tone set when you started? Was "The Falls," for instance, more<br />

difficult to pull <strong>of</strong>f than something containing more broadly<br />

satirical components like "Sea Oak" (with the male strip club, the<br />

reality TV, <strong>and</strong> the rotting corpse), or vice versa?<br />

GS: I have about an equally hard time with every story, to tell the<br />

truth, regardless <strong>of</strong> the style it is in. My process always goes like this:<br />

1) Begin a story in a spirit <strong>of</strong> boundless joy <strong>and</strong> confidence.<br />

Rely totally on your subconscious. Enjoy every minute <strong>of</strong> writing<br />

<strong>and</strong>, when not writing, feel possessed by a wonderful feeling that<br />

you are an okay person, in the middle <strong>of</strong> something worthwhile.<br />

2) Write in this spirit for one week to two months, becoming<br />

more <strong>and</strong> more convinced that what you are writing is good.<br />

Thoughts <strong>and</strong> ideas flow out <strong>of</strong> you, unexamined <strong>and</strong> intrinsically<br />

good. Pages pile up. It is clear that the story will be done any day.<br />

Begin spending the money you will earn for it, using credit cards.<br />

3) One day, when something unrelated to writing has gone very<br />

wrong, read the story. Be thunderstruck by how very bad it is. It is<br />

really, really unworkable. What a moron you were. You see very<br />

clearly that your subconscious mind is a chimp. It is stupid <strong>and</strong><br />

undisciplined. Your conscious mind at this point strides in, very<br />

disappointed in the subconscious, <strong>and</strong> orders it to its room. The<br />

subconscious mind goes to its room, dragging its knuckles <strong>and</strong><br />

looking back sadly over its hairy shoulders, ashamed <strong>of</strong> how reckless<br />

it has been. It has broken a lamp. It has soiled the rug. The<br />

conscious mind rolls up its sleeves <strong>and</strong> gets to work, cleaning up the<br />

lamp <strong>and</strong> the rug, looking for a way to end the story <strong>and</strong> thus<br />

collect the check that is by now so badly needed to pay <strong>of</strong>f the<br />

credit cards one ran up while still trusting in the subconscious.<br />

4) At this point, the conscious mind, like some fat sailor who<br />

has w<strong>and</strong>ered into a ballet company, begins barking over-literal<br />

orders. He is dim, logical, <strong>and</strong> loud. All <strong>of</strong> his solutions are lame.<br />

He is always looking for the straight line between two points. He<br />

'finishes' the story again <strong>and</strong> again, each successive draft looking<br />

more like an equation <strong>and</strong> less like a spontaneous yelp <strong>of</strong> joy than<br />

the preceding one. This irritates him, <strong>and</strong> he starts insisting that you<br />

write at odd hours, drink too much c<strong>of</strong>fee, <strong>and</strong> cease enjoying<br />

everything else in life, until such time as you/he can get this damned<br />

story done.<br />

5) The subconscious, locked in its room, begins pounding on


the door, crying "At least let me try! At least let me try, you're<br />

stretching the heck out <strong>of</strong> those ballet tights!"<br />

6) After many months <strong>and</strong> dozens <strong>and</strong> dozens <strong>of</strong> false starts, the<br />

conscious mind is very tired, <strong>and</strong> lets the subconscious out, so he<br />

can sit on the couch <strong>and</strong> catch his breath <strong>and</strong> let the blood flow<br />

come back into his legs.<br />

7) The subconscious, cheered by how doltish <strong>and</strong> incapable the<br />

conscious actually is, breaks the code <strong>and</strong> is able to finish the story.<br />

8) After a week or so, start another story (see item 1, above)<br />

Needless to say, there's a lot <strong>of</strong> time tied up in Step 4, above. With<br />

every story in Pastoralia, with the exception <strong>of</strong> "The End <strong>of</strong> Firpo<br />

in the World," I spent months at Step 4. I really don't know why. I<br />

think it has to do with fully assimilating the story, underst<strong>and</strong>ing<br />

what you've done so far, so you can make some spontaneous leap<br />

forward. Only I wish it wasn't like this, because Step 4 is not<br />

pleasant. I mean, it's not one <strong>of</strong> those I-was-stuck-for-a-week-<strong>and</strong>then-had-a-triumphant-breakthrough<br />

things. It involves a total loss<br />

<strong>of</strong> faith in my abilities <strong>and</strong> a lot <strong>of</strong> deep frustration, etc. But at least<br />

in this book, all <strong>of</strong> the stories turned out better for the wait, I think.<br />

MD: With the exception <strong>of</strong> Gappers, you've written short stories<br />

exclusively. What draws you to this form as opposed to the<br />

ubiquitous novel? Do you feel any pressure from the publishing<br />

industry to produce a longer work? Is there a publishing industry?<br />

GS: I don't feel any pressure to write a novel, except from within. I<br />

think there is indeed a publishing industry but all <strong>of</strong> its representatives<br />

that I've met are far too polite <strong>and</strong> nice to try to strong-arm<br />

anybody into writing anything. For whatever reason, the things I've<br />

learned how to do are all about compression <strong>and</strong> essential action,<br />

<strong>and</strong> at least so far, whenever I try to 'write a novel' I just start<br />

writing more sloppily <strong>and</strong> saying in five pages what I would<br />

normally say in one, which is clearly not a good approach. So I am<br />

taking a 'wait-<strong>and</strong>-see' attitude. I do have the sense that everything<br />

I've written so far, or at least everything I've managed to finish so<br />

far, has been teaching me different parts <strong>of</strong> what I would need to<br />

know to finish something longer.<br />

MD: We've been conducting this interview pretty exclusively<br />

within the confines <strong>of</strong> the "Battle for the White House," a cultural<br />

narrative that has seemed, literally, to beg for satire—in fact it could<br />

be said that the sc<strong>and</strong>al has actually generated more pr<strong>of</strong>ound selfsatire<br />

than its critics are able to muster. What happens when our<br />

actual experience <strong>of</strong> the world starts to overtake our ability to<br />

parodize it?<br />

GS: I think we parodize more deeply. Or maybe we parodize for<br />

greater portions <strong>of</strong> the day. In all honesty, I don't think the world<br />

can catch us. If it does, we will parody the world's self-satisfaction<br />

at catching us. Or, say it isn't self-satisfied when it catches us—then<br />

we parody how self-righteous it is about not being self-satisfied.<br />

I guess what I'm trying to say is: whatever we are parodying, we<br />

are, at heart, always parodying us. When Bush-talk makes us cringe,<br />

we are cringing at the part <strong>of</strong> us that thinks/talks that way. If something<br />

seems to us deserving <strong>of</strong> satire, it is because it seems to be<br />

within our range <strong>of</strong> possibility—it wouldn't bug us if there didn't<br />

seem to be a chance that it could be us doing that reprehensible<br />

thing, or talking in that vague, misdirected way. So if this is true,<br />

there will always be something to satirize: the local manifestation <strong>of</strong><br />

whatever trait we dread having ourselves.


100<br />

—Ai<br />

Rude Awakening<br />

The first time I saw Clotilde,<br />

she was st<strong>and</strong>ing in the window<br />

<strong>of</strong> an Amsterdam brothel,<br />

her negligee discreetly buttoned<br />

from head to toe,<br />

so I had to use my imagination.<br />

I liked that, liked how she beckoned me<br />

with one long, scarlet fingernail.<br />

"Follow me," it said <strong>and</strong> I obeyed.<br />

Before I met her,<br />

I taught high school English in Rapid City<br />

<strong>and</strong> coached volleyball<br />

<strong>and</strong> most <strong>of</strong> the time<br />

I didn't even think about my nights<br />

lying alone in bed, smoking,<br />

watching the red lights <strong>of</strong> my alarm clock.<br />

Last July, I got an insurance check,<br />

because I wrecked my car<br />

<strong>and</strong> I decided to use the money<br />

to do some things I'd always dreamed about.<br />

My buddy, <strong>Art</strong>, the Assistant Principal<br />

<strong>and</strong> I went to London, Rome, Paris<br />

<strong>and</strong> I allowed him to harass me<br />

into going to see the prostitutes <strong>of</strong> Amsterdam.<br />

He said, "Frank, are you a man?"<br />

I answered, "yes, I am,"<br />

<strong>and</strong> so we went to take a look <strong>and</strong> look we did.<br />

He was sensible.<br />

He partook, but did not take out<br />

more than he put in,<br />

but then he didn't fall in love<br />

<strong>and</strong> have to spend so many nights<br />

waiting for his beloved to get <strong>of</strong>f work<br />

<strong>and</strong> do for free what she gets paid for<br />

simply because she loved me<br />

<strong>and</strong> not because she wanted my money.<br />

I swear there was nothing to make me suspicious<br />

<strong>and</strong> it was so exciting with her<br />

that I did not acknowledge what I knew<br />

deep in my heart<br />

<strong>and</strong> so in my mind escaped total complicity<br />

in the thing that came to be my ruination.<br />

Clotilde's gone now,<br />

she's just the breeze<br />

that chills me this autumn afternoon<br />

when instead <strong>of</strong> teaching,<br />

I'm lying in bed, trying to underst<strong>and</strong><br />

why I chose to accept the disgrace <strong>of</strong> losing my job<br />

<strong>and</strong> not to fight, not to present myself<br />

to the school board as a victim <strong>of</strong> her deceit<br />

as an answer to the complaints<br />

about the company I was keeping.<br />

<strong>Art</strong>, being the SOB I'd once mistaken for a friend,<br />

decided to tell the secret<br />

I had not failed to share with him,<br />

so overcome was I by passion.<br />

I never thought we'd end our friendship


102<br />

over that thin slip <strong>of</strong> a girl<br />

just because she had a penis.<br />

I ask you, what is wrong with the company <strong>of</strong> men?<br />

If I had read the guide book that said,<br />

"if you visit one <strong>of</strong> the women,<br />

we would like to remind you<br />

that they are not always women,"<br />

I wonder now if I would have faced it all sooner<br />

<strong>and</strong> left my darling back in the window,<br />

posing as if for a Rembr<strong>and</strong>t tableau<br />

in which a slightly overweight, middle aged man<br />

pretends to practice the art <strong>of</strong> letting go<br />

<strong>and</strong> does not notice<br />

what is so obvious to those<br />

whose vision is not obstructed<br />

by the rose colored glasses<br />

behind which with eyes closed tightly<br />

he kisses the throat <strong>of</strong> his loved one<br />

<strong>and</strong> runs his tongue over the apple there<br />

<strong>and</strong> knows everything at once.<br />

Don't we all want a little mystery<br />

with our romance,<br />

even if it is accompanied<br />

by a rude awakening,<br />

when you find in your h<strong>and</strong><br />

the kind <strong>of</strong> surprise<br />

that might disgust any other man,<br />

but only made me wonder at fate<br />

<strong>and</strong> how it sends us the mate we always wanted,<br />

if only we could admit it.<br />

. .,.•;. •.•.«••.<br />

THE ANNUAL CONTESTS IN '' ' AND HAVE<br />

BEEN A TRADITION IN THIS MAGAZINE FOR MORE THAN A<br />

DECADE. THIS YEAR, WE INCLUDED A<br />

CATEGORY TO REFLECT OUR CONTINUED INTEREST IN ALL<br />

VARIETIES OF PROSE.<br />

THOUGH EARLY CONTESTS WERE JUDGED BY OUR OWN<br />

EDITORIAL STAFF, IN RECENT YEARS COLUMBIA HAS<br />

INVITED NATIONALLY-KNOWN AUTHORS AND WRITERS TO<br />

SERVE AS GUEST JUDGES. THIS YEAR THE EDITORS<br />

THANK SEN MARCUS, LIS HARRIS, AND RICHARD HOWARD<br />

FOR CONTRIBUTING THEIR TIME IN READING SUBMIS-<br />

SIONS. ".<br />

PLEASE REFER TO THE CONTRIBUTOR'S NOTES TO<br />

LEARN MORE ABOUT OUR CONTEST JUDGES!


104<br />

-JOSHUA POTEAT<br />

Self Portrait as the Autumn <strong>of</strong> the Red Hat<br />

To begin with the hat would be foolish.<br />

The story goes back further, to the fox<br />

st<strong>and</strong>ing over a dead hare in an open field,<br />

to hunting muskrat in the Cohansey marshes<br />

<strong>and</strong> finding the body <strong>of</strong> a white-haired girl<br />

in a heron's nest, her mouth wide <strong>and</strong> full<br />

<strong>of</strong> mud. The hat has nothing to do with it,<br />

at least from what I can tell. We're poling<br />

through the bulrush <strong>and</strong> we run aground,<br />

but it's not aground, it's her. There was a hat, yes,<br />

<strong>and</strong> it was hers, but it was found much later<br />

washed under the old docks, limp, a sadness<br />

beyond any <strong>of</strong> us, cold in the heart's distance<br />

<strong>of</strong> our failed autumn.<br />

Self Portrait as the Autumn I have Lost<br />

*sj»p^6g.jiSi3|j;:y£Si-|-?ifii: •<br />

Believe me, if I knew a better way to put this<br />

I would, but this is the best I can do:<br />

when I was 10, I derailed a train.<br />

There. I said it. It wasn't much to think about.<br />

How can you honestly think about something like that?<br />

It just happens. You pick the stones up, or you push them<br />

onto the tracks. Or you can use the rotted ties<br />

lying beside the track, the ones the track-layers<br />

would take shits on. Either way, it'll work.<br />

Either way, your h<strong>and</strong>s will get dirty, but what I think <strong>of</strong><br />

the most is the freight car full <strong>of</strong> pigs,<br />

their perfect white feet rising in the dusk.


I 06<br />

—ELIZABETH COLLINS<br />

Cold Snap<br />

Nonfiction Winner<br />

BY LiS HARRIS<br />

She's been out <strong>of</strong> my life—vanished, silent—for nearly five<br />

years now. I don't let myself care. We were in contact for about a<br />

year. That's one year we knew each other out <strong>of</strong> nearly thirty. To<br />

those who ask me about my birthmother, I say, "She has emotional<br />

problems. She's repressed. Confused."<br />

None <strong>of</strong> this surprises me given her difficult history <strong>and</strong> the<br />

way she had me. In itself, it's forgivable, but the way Mary Ann continues<br />

to clutch at secrets <strong>and</strong> refuses to apologize, is not.<br />

A few sentences, any gesture, <strong>and</strong> I would forget how she hurt<br />

me. It's her move, though. I don't even know where she is. The last<br />

I heard—from my half-sister, Cate—our mother had bought a<br />

house on Martha's Vineyard. But Cate, too, has disappeared.<br />

I could look for Mary Ann. I could search for her all over again.<br />

But I'm busy <strong>and</strong> I'm tired. Mary Ann wasn't there to hear the<br />

biggest news I'll ever have; she missed my wedding, <strong>and</strong> she doesn't<br />

know about my baby. It's her own fault, <strong>and</strong> I try not to think about it.<br />

I had started the search for my birthmother when I was<br />

twenty-four, in the spring <strong>of</strong> 1995. I felt so alone, as if I had just<br />

dropped from the sky. There was no one in my life who looked like<br />

me or had anything approaching my personality. I didn't even know<br />

what nationality I was. I knew nothing about my birthparents or<br />

their stories.<br />

My adoptive parents had freely told me that I was adopted. They<br />

subscribed to the notion that keeping secrets was harmful in the<br />

long run. But they didn't know much about me, either.<br />

They told me, when I asked, that I was Irish—<strong>and</strong> Danish. I<br />

suspected, however, that this was a lie—albeit a well-intentioned<br />

one. My father was Irish, <strong>and</strong> his homel<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> relatives had played<br />

a large part in my life. My mother just said she thought my birthmother<br />

had been young <strong>and</strong> in college when she had me. "We were<br />

told she was smart <strong>and</strong> pretty," she said. My father added, "And she<br />

was vivacious. A cheerleader type." A cheerleader? Again, I thought<br />

this was probably something my parents hoped was true.<br />

I didn't tell them I was searching but not because I thought<br />

they'd have a problem with it. My parents were proud <strong>of</strong> what they<br />

saw as their secure stance as my "real" parents. I wanted to search<br />

for me, <strong>and</strong> I saw no reason to involve them.<br />

After a few months, against all reason, all odds, with fortuitous<br />

strokes <strong>of</strong> luck <strong>and</strong> search help from a group <strong>of</strong> fellow adoptees on<br />

the internet, I found my birthmother's brother. I asked him to have<br />

his sister call Mary Frances (the name she gave me at birth). She did<br />

so right away. The first time we spoke, in late July, 1995, she talked<br />

<strong>and</strong> talked in her small, snuffly voice. Essentially she monologued<br />

on the type <strong>of</strong> person she was, concentrating heavily on her career<br />

(something in business—human resources) <strong>and</strong> her schooling. She<br />

had gotten into Smith, but her father wouldn't let her go. Believing<br />

a small Catholic college would keep her safe <strong>and</strong> pure, he had forced<br />

her to attend St. Elizabeths instead. She majored in French. Soon<br />

after graduation she married <strong>and</strong> had three more children, two girls<br />

<strong>and</strong> a boy. She didn't tell me their names but she did give me their<br />

approximate ages. The girls were in college (she didn't say where),<br />

<strong>and</strong> the boy was just starting high school. He lived in Illinois with<br />

a friend's family. Mary Ann herself lived <strong>and</strong> worked in Chicago.<br />

Her husb<strong>and</strong> had been laid <strong>of</strong>f—that's when she went to the city to<br />

find work. Now he lived in Georgia. Mary Ann hated Georgia, she<br />

said.<br />

She didn't ask about me. She didn't ask anything besides, "Did<br />

you always live in the same house <strong>and</strong> in the same town?" <strong>and</strong> a<br />

perfunctory, "Were you happy?" I don't remember what I said to<br />

that last question. I was too busy writing down the things she told


io8<br />

me, the facts <strong>and</strong> the details, to care much at first. I assumed we<br />

would have plenty <strong>of</strong> future conversations, but, looking back, Mary<br />

Ann probably intended to speak with me just once.<br />

She told me I had been conceived on Cape Cod, over July 4 th<br />

weekend. My father was a former boyfriend <strong>of</strong> Mary Ann's. She said<br />

she "never loved him." I asked, almost sheepishly, but she wouldn't<br />

tell me his name. She only said that his family was from Massachusetts,<br />

that they were indeed Danish, <strong>and</strong> that he had asked her to<br />

marry him but she had refused.<br />

Mary Ann had hidden her pregnancy with me. I don't know<br />

what she had been planning to do. She was only found out at eight<br />

months when a resident advisor at college saw her emerge from a<br />

shower, figured out the situation <strong>and</strong> called her parents. They<br />

arrived in the middle <strong>of</strong> the night <strong>and</strong> shipped Mary Ann to a home<br />

for unwed mothers. A month later, I was born. Mary Ann's father<br />

arranged the adoption.<br />

The nurses at the hospital kept urging her to hold me. She said<br />

she cried <strong>and</strong> told them she wasn't allowed to. That's what the caseworkers<br />

at the agency had said. They had terrified her, she<br />

explained, threatening to prosecute if she ever tried to find me. The<br />

hospital nurses pshawed these threats. "Don't be silly," they said,<br />

<strong>and</strong> gave me to Mary Ann, telling her, "this little baby needs to be<br />

loved."<br />

Mary Ann said she held me for two days, conspiring to keep<br />

me, thinking she could run away <strong>and</strong> wait tables somewhere. Then<br />

she had to sign the relinquishment papers, <strong>and</strong> the doctors kicked<br />

her out <strong>of</strong> the hospital. I was sent to an orphanage.<br />

Mary Ann told me conflicting stories, sometimes in the same<br />

breath: that she always knew I would find her, that she was sure I<br />

would never find her, that she would have found me first had she<br />

known about online adoption registries, that she had always had an<br />

unlisted phone number so I couldn't find her. She said she knew I'd<br />

been looking. She said she had what her mother called "the<br />

Irish gift." Did I have it, too? Strong intuition, premonitions,<br />

clairvoyancy. I said I did—at least, I had dreams in which I saw the<br />

future, though I usually didn't realize what was happening until<br />

whatever I had dreamed came to pass, so what good was that?<br />

Our first call lasted nearly three hours. I thought she would call<br />

again the next night, too. I had given her my address, my parents'<br />

address, my e-mail—even my social security number—so she could<br />

always find me. Mary Ann had forgotten to give me her phone<br />

number or any way to get in touch with her again. I would have to<br />

depend on her to initiate our conversations. This made me anxious.<br />

I waited for weeks. She didn't call. Then using the scanty information<br />

she had given me, I tracked down her mother's<br />

obituary. Mary Ann had said her mother had died in 1980 in San<br />

Mateo, California. I called the San Mateo library <strong>and</strong> had the obit<br />

faxed to me at work. There was Mary Ann's married surname <strong>and</strong><br />

the full names <strong>of</strong> her seven siblings. I knew Mary Ann was in<br />

Chicago, <strong>and</strong> I called information for her number <strong>and</strong> address.<br />

I didn't mention how I had gotten her number; I just called. I<br />

left a message. Mary Ann called back, a little surprised, but we<br />

spoke again. I sent her photos. She thanked me for the pictures <strong>and</strong><br />

said she couldn't believe how much I looked like her mother—<strong>and</strong><br />

like her.<br />

It would seem natural for Mary Ann to send me pictures in<br />

return, but she didn't. I had no idea what she looked like; I only had<br />

yearbook pictures <strong>of</strong> her at eighteen <strong>and</strong> twenty-one. It was many<br />

months later, in February <strong>of</strong> 1996, that she finally sent me photos<br />

<strong>of</strong> herself <strong>and</strong> her family—an envelope full <strong>of</strong> color copies with captions<br />

written in Mary Ann's precise block letters—but no accompanying<br />

note. Even then, however, the only shots <strong>of</strong> her were tiny <strong>and</strong><br />

blurry. I could barely make out her face.<br />

It still made me happy to see <strong>and</strong> underst<strong>and</strong> our physical connection.<br />

I walked around <strong>and</strong> around the piano in my parents'<br />

living room, looking at the clusters <strong>of</strong> framed portraits <strong>of</strong> myself,<br />

thinking, "There I am: Mary Ann's baby. I look just like Mary<br />

Ann." I had never known it, never felt it. I had thought I was my<br />

own species; I was drifting, alone. Seeing my gr<strong>and</strong>mother's nose<br />

<strong>and</strong> the family cheekbones <strong>and</strong> thick, dark hair was a shock. I<br />

almost felt like grieving for the years we had all missed, or grieving<br />

for the person I thought I was. I had assumed I was my own per-


no<br />

son, but really, I was always a part <strong>of</strong> Mary Ann, <strong>and</strong> she was an<br />

irrefutable part <strong>of</strong> me.<br />

I wanted to love Mary Ann, <strong>and</strong> I wanted her to love me. But<br />

she played games. She led me on <strong>and</strong> ran away. She was hot, then<br />

cold. I didn't know how to h<strong>and</strong>le her, <strong>and</strong> I was too close, too<br />

invested. I wanted to be with her too much.<br />

There is, for example, what I now call The Birthday Incident.<br />

Mary Ann knew, <strong>of</strong> course, when my birthday was. I assumed she<br />

would send me a card. Or maybe flowers. I didn't care about getting<br />

a present, but some sort <strong>of</strong> acknowledgement <strong>of</strong> the occasion would<br />

have been nice. There was, however, no word from Mary Ann.<br />

A few weeks passed. Mary Ann e-mailed me. She asked if I had<br />

received the present she sent. No, I said, I hadn't. "Oh, well, you<br />

should be getting it any day," she said. More weeks passed, then<br />

months. She asked a few more times whether I had received the<br />

present. No, I hadn't. I felt bad, <strong>and</strong> guilty, somehow, as if I had lost<br />

the damn thing. Mary Ann blamed the post <strong>of</strong>fice, which I thought<br />

was odd—I mean, this wasn't Mexico. Getting the mail is a given.<br />

Finally, quite a while later, Mary Ann admitted she had never sent<br />

the present. That was fine; what was ridiculous was the way she lied<br />

about it.<br />

In April <strong>of</strong> 1996, Mary Ann <strong>and</strong> I finally met. I guess it had<br />

taken her all this time to become emotionally ready—<strong>and</strong> she<br />

would be in my area on business, so it was convenient for her. I<br />

drove to suburban Philadelphia to meet her in a sterile corporate<br />

park where she was conducting interviews for her company, Fannie<br />

Farmer C<strong>and</strong>ies. I waited at the hotel bar where some men were sitting<br />

<strong>and</strong> talking. Then a petite, bone-thin woman with fluffy dark<br />

hair <strong>and</strong> a small, pixie nose came up to chat with them about some<br />

business. Although I hadn't seen a clear picture <strong>of</strong> her (mature) face,<br />

I knew instinctively it was Mary Ann. I didn't want to meet her<br />

there, at the bar, in front <strong>of</strong> her colleagues, so I hid behind a book,<br />

watching her move away, w<strong>and</strong>ering around the hotel lobby looking<br />

for me.<br />

I darted over to the elevator bank where she was waiting, arms<br />

crossed. I said, "Mary Ann? I'm Elizabeth." She came right at me,<br />

arms up <strong>and</strong> encircled me in a hug.<br />

I waited while Mary Ann changed out <strong>of</strong> her suit <strong>and</strong> into some<br />

jeans <strong>and</strong> we went out to dinner. I don't remember what we talked<br />

about. She ate a salad. I had a quesadilla. We had some drinks at the<br />

bar. I showed her my photo album, which contained pictures <strong>of</strong> me<br />

as a baby <strong>and</strong> as a teenager. She was only mildly interested. I showed<br />

her the non-identifying report from the adoption agency, which she<br />

read <strong>and</strong> declared was "full <strong>of</strong> lies <strong>and</strong> presumptions." We posed for<br />

photographs together. I left before she was ready to say goodbye<br />

because I was tired, <strong>and</strong> I drove back home, inwardly berating<br />

myself for not being warmer toward her, for not taking her h<strong>and</strong> or<br />

acting more mother-daughter-ish.<br />

We should have met months earlier, after that first phone conversation.<br />

I had told Mary Ann that before. I had said that if our<br />

roles had been reversed (or if I'd been able to afford to fly to<br />

Chicago or she had invited me) I would have been on the first plane<br />

to see her. She had replied that she never imagined I would one day<br />

"disdain" her. Then she was silent, punishing me by not sending or<br />

replying to e-mails for a few weeks.<br />

After our meeting, we grew closer. We spoke on the phone a few<br />

times. We sent daily e-mails. Mary Ann would check to see if I was<br />

online <strong>and</strong> she'd "instant message" me. Her notes were warm <strong>and</strong><br />

loving. She told me when I asked if she thought <strong>of</strong> me the way she<br />

thought <strong>of</strong> her other children, "You are MINE. Nothing will ever<br />

change that."<br />

One day in September <strong>of</strong> 1996, Mary Ann told me she was<br />

searching for my birthfather as "a present" to me. She said his first<br />

name was Chuck, <strong>and</strong> that she had posted a message on a registry<br />

board for him, but his family seemed to have "disappeared." I immediately<br />

searched the online boards <strong>and</strong> found her note. My father's<br />

full name was there: Charles Everett Petersen. I commenced a search<br />

<strong>of</strong> my own <strong>and</strong> found my gr<strong>and</strong>father, Everett Petersen, a.k.a. "Pete"<br />

Petersen, in less than a week. He was joyous <strong>and</strong> welcoming. So was<br />

in


112<br />

my birthfather, who now lived in New Jersey <strong>and</strong>, after a great<br />

phone conversation that lasted an entire afternoon, came to see me<br />

the next day bearing dozens <strong>of</strong> long-stemmed Laguna roses. What<br />

Mary Ann had told me was a lie; my father's family had lived in the<br />

same house in Boston for fifty years. If she really had been looking,<br />

she would have found them right away.<br />

Immediately after I found my birthfather, I called Mary Ann to<br />

tell her the good news. She only murmured, "How nice for you."<br />

Then she hung up. She e-mailed me the next day to say she was<br />

sorry; her reaction was, she said, "not good."<br />

We made up, though. She <strong>and</strong> I had plans to meet in Boston in<br />

October. I got what seemed to be the last remaining hotel room in<br />

the city—a $300 a night, mirrored Victorian-themed boudoir in a<br />

flouncy Cambridge B&B. But Mary Ann didn't show. I called her<br />

hotel <strong>and</strong> was told she had cancelled the reservation. When I got<br />

back home to New York, I called her. "Didn't we have plans to<br />

meet?" I asked, prepared to forgive almost any excuse. "Oh, something<br />

came up," is all she said. She was uncommunicative,<br />

unapologetic, so I ended the call. The next day, I sent her a letter<br />

telling her she owed me an explanation, but I never heard from her<br />

again. She never told me what happened. Mary Ann moved away<br />

from Chicago, <strong>and</strong> I don't know where she is.<br />

—RICHARD ST. GERMAIN<br />

Putting Away the Games<br />

Fiction Wini<br />

JUDGED BY BEN MAP<br />

Folded towels under lawn chairs are coming into focus. Girls<br />

are st<strong>and</strong>ing under a sprinkler with their mouths open. One girl has<br />

turned to speak with someone in the house <strong>and</strong> can be looked at<br />

closely from the rear. It is being seen how cold a person so little <strong>and</strong><br />

naked can get. The sound the sprinkler makes is being listened to.<br />

The sound cars make going by is being heard. The cars are being<br />

cursed. The strap on her bathing suit is adjusted by one <strong>of</strong> the girls.<br />

She is bending over to pull on a pair <strong>of</strong> sneakers. A recent addition<br />

to one <strong>of</strong> the neighbors' garages is keeping the girl in shadow. Fingerprints<br />

are getting on the window. Aim is taken with a spray bottle<br />

<strong>and</strong> the prints are sighted <strong>and</strong> care is taken not to get spray on<br />

the window trim. The fingerprints are being wiped <strong>of</strong>f with a paper<br />

towel. The paper towel is being crimped tighter <strong>and</strong> smaller, into a<br />

ball, until there are no free edges <strong>and</strong> bits <strong>of</strong> the towel have been<br />

shaken onto the carpet. The chair is being touched each time it is<br />

gone by. So is the counter top <strong>and</strong> doorknob. How the bathing suit<br />

stretched over her crotch as the girl pulled on her sneakers is being<br />

remembered. Being considered the type <strong>of</strong> a person who would<br />

think about the girl like that is having to be considered. Being<br />

thought about like that is having to be considered. Bending over<br />

<strong>and</strong> having someone look at your crotch like that. The window is<br />

being lifted so that the fly will find it <strong>and</strong> fly out it <strong>and</strong> not have to<br />

die yet. How many days until the water rationing starts is being<br />

asked. How many cars washed. How many lawns watered. How<br />

long until the girls have to get cleaned up for supper, bring in the


mixing bowl that your mother asked not leave the kitchen, <strong>and</strong><br />

remember when your father comes home, when your father comes<br />

home. This sentence is not being continued. How many dishwashers<br />

filled <strong>and</strong> so on. How long until the ball is deemed small enough<br />

<strong>and</strong> tight enough to be walked away from, not be tested for every<br />

last eminence <strong>and</strong> reduced even more, against the intent: it is being<br />

pondered. An area on the counter top is being eyed for it. How long<br />

until the ball is found preserved under the base <strong>of</strong> a lamp, denied its<br />

place on the counter when a h<strong>and</strong> that was needed to prevent the<br />

act <strong>of</strong> falling into a mirror, to allow inspection <strong>of</strong> the nose hairs that<br />

were caught showing, <strong>and</strong> to permit the admission that there was no<br />

way those nose hairs were going to be clipped at any one sitting,<br />

that there was going to have to be a schedule <strong>of</strong> maintenance for the<br />

nose hairs, opened <strong>and</strong> let it go, is now made possible to measure.<br />

The planets are maintained in their orbits. The earth revolves on its<br />

axis. People are murdered through pure sentimentality. The h<strong>and</strong>s<br />

that knotted a macrame strap to fit the eyelets <strong>of</strong> the binoculars are<br />

being examined for places on them where the skin has become<br />

lumped or scaly. The murders <strong>of</strong> these people are being learned<br />

from a newspaper as it is fitted into the bottom <strong>of</strong> a shoe box. The<br />

wind is blowing the limbs <strong>of</strong> a tree across a window the girls are<br />

thought to be in. Still, the girls are being imagined in their nightgowns<br />

in front <strong>of</strong> a TV. Other things that might have been studied<br />

with the binoculars are being relegated to other days. The water is<br />

being put on for tea. People are actually being whacked with<br />

machetes, getting their arms <strong>and</strong> legs cut <strong>of</strong>f. What a machete is is<br />

being summoned. Something to do with a jungle. What a jungle is<br />

is being summoned. The only referent come up with is a picture in<br />

National Geographic. It is a picture <strong>of</strong> a woman in a clearing. These<br />

women having their arms <strong>and</strong> legs cut <strong>of</strong>f. Having just their legs cut<br />

<strong>of</strong>f. Their arms already cut <strong>of</strong>f. In the clearing. Cut <strong>of</strong>f. The tea is<br />

being sipped. It is trying to be given perspective. The girls in the<br />

clearing. An arm raised above the bathing suit strap. Whack. A feeling<br />

<strong>of</strong> having accomplished something is being felt. The effects <strong>of</strong><br />

the feeling are felt too. The teacup is being hoisted like the girl's arm<br />

might be because it is dripping. The teacup is being set where the<br />

drips will not cause a ring. It would get easier after that, it is being<br />

assumed. That the girls are imagined to be safely watching TV is<br />

given thanks for, to a God that is approximately Christian. That an<br />

approximately Christian God would forgive these thoughts is the<br />

belief obtaining here. It is admitted that the God must be asked to<br />

forgive these thoughts to forgive them. Another comparison to the<br />

girl's arm is being made: steam is rising <strong>of</strong>f the cup <strong>of</strong> tea. The<br />

checkerboard is being checked inside for an accompanying box <strong>of</strong><br />

checkers. A repository on the body for small wads <strong>of</strong> toilet paper is<br />

being kneaded with the fingers, as the wads are distinguished from<br />

outgrowths <strong>of</strong> skin, which do not come up so easily when teased<br />

with a finger, <strong>and</strong> which bleed when they do. The diminishment <strong>of</strong><br />

the wind is being wished for. Or that the tree drop a few limbs. God<br />

is not being petitioned. Only the doorknob is touched anymore; the<br />

chair <strong>and</strong> the counter top have been excluded. An unwieldy<br />

arrangement <strong>of</strong> camping equipment is finally kept from being so<br />

unwieldy by being clamped down with a chain. The "Guide to<br />

Ponds <strong>and</strong> Streams" is being placed in the trash. So is the "Guide to<br />

Moths <strong>and</strong> Butterflies." The giant chemistry kit is being dragged<br />

out once again. An urge to pull on the symbolic goggles, to orchestrate<br />

the vessels according to some moderately hazardous experiment,<br />

is having to be defended against. The ebbing light is cited.<br />

The wind that would mix the vapors with those <strong>of</strong> furniture polish.<br />

The time until hunger will summon is becoming a concern. The<br />

obligations <strong>of</strong> any undertaking are being forecast against further<br />

obligations. All obligations are being tolerated as far as they contribute<br />

toward a predetermined goal. A day's waste is being re-evaluated<br />

as fitting within the margin <strong>of</strong> error, a loss that will increase<br />

the resolve not to waste a day again. Already, good has been pulled<br />

out <strong>of</strong> it: watching lavender clouds turn purple, surprise that the<br />

shoe trees were remembered so fondly. The day's consumption <strong>of</strong><br />

food is being reviewed. It is being related to the amplitude <strong>and</strong> frequency<br />

<strong>of</strong> urination <strong>and</strong> bowel movement <strong>and</strong> found that it is<br />

indeed related to the amplitude <strong>and</strong> frequency <strong>of</strong> urination <strong>and</strong><br />

bowel movement. Collections <strong>of</strong> toy cars <strong>and</strong> plastic Indians are<br />

being given away. A metaphor ("like stones taken back to the beach<br />

where they were found") is being critiqued. The night is feared.<br />

Dreams have been cooked up in which armless girls do not react


116<br />

when their bathing suit straps fall down. The sounds <strong>of</strong> cars going<br />

by are being heard more clearly. By the sounds it is surmised that<br />

the cars are not braking on curves. This is judged as grounds for<br />

murder. The bucolic nature <strong>of</strong> the streets is cited, although the word<br />

"bucolic" is not actually applied. Between the sounds <strong>of</strong> cars going<br />

by <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> pages <strong>of</strong> a newspaper being turned, it is being realized that<br />

a wish has been granted. A man presumed to be the father <strong>of</strong> the<br />

girls is watching TV. The trappings that must follow from having a<br />

wife <strong>and</strong> the girls to come home to are being, let's face it, detested.<br />

Yet he is being envied. The binoculars are rested on part <strong>of</strong> the window,<br />

built up with a little finger under them. The focus is being<br />

allowed to s<strong>of</strong>ten. He is faded down to just a blur in a chair. The<br />

girls come into the room dancing around him, settling in front <strong>of</strong><br />

the TV. He or whatever he st<strong>and</strong>s for is multiplied by the number<br />

<strong>of</strong> other houses in which the color <strong>of</strong> lighted windows suggests a TV<br />

might be on. He is being made ready to be faced. Reasons are selected<br />

to explain a pair <strong>of</strong> binoculars. Liberated closet space is being<br />

filled with files. The chair is being pushed under the table, the door<br />

is being shut <strong>and</strong> locked, the counter top is being glued where it has<br />

been pressed back so <strong>of</strong>ten the laminate has started wearing away.<br />

The laminate is being weighted with a stack <strong>of</strong> books; a sign is being<br />

taped beneath it. The sign is being admired. The night is being welcomed,<br />

even invited. Dreams <strong>of</strong> the girls kicking up their nightgowns,<br />

l<strong>and</strong>ing on the scratched brown pads <strong>of</strong> their feet as he pretends<br />

to try to watch TV are being waited upon to elaborate,<br />

replaced by having something to eat, arranging the files, guessing<br />

which programs on TV he is watching. He is being liked for not<br />

feeling ridiculed as he watches TV. He has been assigned such lassitude<br />

<strong>and</strong> good humor that nothing so remote as the programs on<br />

TV can bother him. A thought that he is watching TV for the sake<br />

<strong>of</strong> the girls is occurred by the hopelessness <strong>of</strong> searching for a program<br />

that he might be watching. A running interpretation <strong>of</strong> all the<br />

absurdities that are spotted is <strong>of</strong>fered to the imagined fascination <strong>of</strong><br />

the girls. The task <strong>of</strong> a father is to capitalize on that fascination, it<br />

is observed. He would have to recognize the power in that fascination.<br />

He would have to ensure that his use <strong>of</strong> the power did not<br />

become perverted. The word "perverted" is being stopped at. Some<br />

diversion from it is being yearned for. The window is entreated for<br />

the sound <strong>of</strong> sprinkling. It is being acknowledged that he is probably<br />

in his bedroom asleep. But that he has paused to look out a window<br />

<strong>of</strong> his house is granted as a possibility. The reason ventured is<br />

that he does not trust the conduct <strong>of</strong> his dreams. He is being shown<br />

what he would see if he were looking out the window past the tree.<br />

He is being shown the neighbor whose tree it is. He is encouraged<br />

to take time to study. Time is even allowed for him to scrounge a<br />

pair <strong>of</strong> binoculars. If he were tempted to go into the girls' room,<br />

looking for the binoculars could be his excuse. Things are being<br />

admitted to, apparently. This is the epiphany. But if things are being<br />

revealed, other things are being hidden even deeper. Exhibiting for<br />

the neighbors cannot be justified. They must be considered sleeping.<br />

It is thought a pity he cannot monitor their sleep, <strong>and</strong> when<br />

people were coming at them with machetes, tell them it was only a<br />

dream. They are somewhat facetiously being wished sweet dreams.<br />

The window shade is being fished for. The light is being extinguished.<br />

A route through the darkness is being planned. The<br />

counter top, chair, <strong>and</strong> doorknob will be l<strong>and</strong>marks. The position<br />

<strong>of</strong> the bed can be reckoned after that. A h<strong>and</strong> is lifted.


118<br />

• ••*!•>'- :. '<br />

—JAMES GRINWIS<br />

An Old Shrine<br />

There's a boy over there<br />

making a clay lizard or some bird sculptures.<br />

There's the Nile, swerving<br />

like a milkmaid's thigh emerging from a sheet.<br />

There's the game warden, present at the sacrifices <strong>of</strong> the first day,<br />

but who into the second vanished<br />

like a carp or snow.<br />

The village <strong>of</strong> stone cutters creeps across the valley.<br />

A dowdy spider corrupts a stucco chip.<br />

There's a girl flirting or a girl<br />

<strong>and</strong> her bubble gum.<br />

There's an oak leaf.<br />

Floating down the river.<br />

Floating down for the first time<br />

in history, with a s<strong>of</strong>t-shelled thing at that.<br />

A shiny mango held me all together.<br />

Now, it's a crumb.<br />

The crumb is small, sad,<br />

<strong>and</strong> glows with a westerly light.<br />

It walks around <strong>and</strong> smashes into things. It stoops to pray.<br />

"There!" it says, lifting me up.


120<br />

—REETIKA VAZIRANI<br />

from The Maharajas Welcome<br />

The fancy dress I wore was the wrong one.<br />

they saw me for what I wasn't; I didn't disabuse them,<br />

so I was lost.<br />

—Alvaro de Campos (Fern<strong>and</strong>o Pessoa)<br />

The Palace opened Sesame.<br />

Our Maharaja tall <strong>and</strong> h<strong>and</strong>some.<br />

Come, he took us in.<br />

His daughters Daisy <strong>and</strong> Mina <strong>of</strong>fered to show me<br />

Kiran said, Maya you haven't seen a lotus in so many<br />

Time flew, the men stayed put, <strong>and</strong> I skipped out with the girls.<br />

Quadrants <strong>of</strong> clipped hedges <strong>and</strong> watered roses.<br />

The central fountain teemed with lotus<br />

<strong>and</strong> a few jewel-green frogs;<br />

a croquet lawn to mirror English gentry.<br />

We were what was left <strong>of</strong> it<br />

<strong>and</strong> thin men bending to keep us.<br />

The girls kept asking about men <strong>and</strong> America.<br />

Their father said, Don't be greedy for the world.<br />

You're twenty-one, they chimed,<br />

You married Daddy's doctor.<br />

I guess I had.<br />

It hadn't occurred to me I said yes to things.<br />

—LINDA PASTAN<br />

The Triumph <strong>of</strong> Laziness<br />

"Meadow in a can" it said,<br />

<strong>and</strong> I opened it the way<br />

I open a can <strong>of</strong> soup, then tossed<br />

its contents out the kitchen door,<br />

forgetting all about it until weeks later<br />

from the bedroom window<br />

I can see phlox <strong>and</strong> daisies,<br />

black-eyed susans, violets—<br />

a whole syllabus <strong>of</strong> blossoms,<br />

as if the neglected yard<br />

were shaking out its flowered apron.<br />

And though the serious gardener<br />

in my life may frown,<br />

somewhere a benign<br />

P<strong>and</strong>ora smiles.


122<br />

—AGHA SHAHID ALI<br />

The Fourth Day<br />

Doomsday had but—but barely bad—breathed its first<br />

when I again remembered you as you were leaving.<br />

—Ghalib<br />

The dead—so quickly—become the poor at night.<br />

And the poor? They are the dead so soon by night...<br />

But whom the news has reached in the Valley <strong>of</strong> Death<br />

(The Belovid is gone The Beloved is gone)<br />

they are not the dead, they are the poor at dawn,<br />

they who have come from shrines after breaking their heads on the<br />

threshold-stones <strong>of</strong> God.<br />

* * *<br />

When you left flames deserted their wicks in the shrines.<br />

Now they arrive with the poor to light up the few who have returned<br />

from ashes, disguised as roses.<br />

What possibilities the earth has forever covered, what faces?<br />

They have arrived with wings, as burning moths, to put themselves<br />

out on your grave.<br />

From behind headstones they keep coming with the dead—who are not<br />

the dead—<br />

just the poor, wrapped in blankets, risen at dawn, walking like the<br />

dead by the wrecked river...<br />

From behind headstones they keep coming toward us, silent on a<br />

carpet by your grave.<br />

They are not the dead. We are the poor at dawn.<br />

When the flames are wrenched, gasping in knots, they are not the<br />

dead. We are the poor at dawn.<br />

And when the flames die, they leave what is left <strong>of</strong> their h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />

In fingerprints they leave all their prayers on your grave.<br />

Four days: And eternities have so quickly slowed down.<br />

Only a few—disguised as roses—return from ashes.<br />

They are the poor, not the dead at dawn, who have come to weep with<br />

all their passion:<br />

Doomsday barely begins when it repeats its beginning<br />

(For what is Doomsday but the Beloved's departure?)<br />

<strong>and</strong> I again remember you leaving with the caravan <strong>of</strong> dawn.


124<br />

Four days have passed. Eternities have slowed down:<br />

They are not the dead, we are the poor at dawn.<br />

/ stood weeping in the desert <strong>and</strong> the sun rose.<br />

And the sun fell on the ro<strong>of</strong>s <strong>of</strong> the poor. And it fell on mansions<br />

in the mountains.<br />

Again I see you leave with the caravan <strong>of</strong> dawn.<br />

Doomsday begins. It keeps on beginning.<br />

And the Beloved leaves one behind to die.<br />

[The Fourth Day: Among Muslims, it marks the end <strong>of</strong> the first<br />

active period <strong>of</strong> mourning.]<br />

-LUISA IGLORIA<br />

Two Memories <strong>of</strong> Fire<br />

1.<br />

In the year after I turned six, I spent a month at the hospital.<br />

I don't remember now except how much my nose bled<br />

everyday, the taste in my throat edged with rust like the<br />

high windows <strong>and</strong> their iron sashes. Brown water from the<br />

bathroom taps, gray army blankets that smelled like pee.<br />

The light bulbs glowed like yellow balls on string <strong>and</strong> faded,<br />

blurred. Nurses floated in on rubber soles to listen to my<br />

chest <strong>and</strong> read my secret alphabets, encoded in stool <strong>and</strong><br />

blood. One broke a thermometer, returning it to the tray<br />

beside the bed—they'd cranked the mattress up, so I was<br />

nearly sitting—I watched the spray <strong>of</strong> mercury unroll in<br />

beads across linoleum tile. I fell asleep searching for silver:<br />

gleam from the cracks, unbreakable shapes <strong>of</strong> circles, endless<br />

ability to disintegrate, reconstitute, inhabit a footprint or<br />

shadow <strong>and</strong> become its skinny but pulsating form. Back<br />

home, my mother put me in a bed in the sewing room, close<br />

to the kitchen where she orchestrated the babble <strong>of</strong> pots in<br />

the sink, loosed a dry rain <strong>of</strong> rice or beans into shallow<br />

baskets. I had a square <strong>of</strong> window for company, laminated<br />

Novenas to Saint Francis <strong>of</strong> Assisi <strong>and</strong> Saint Martin de Porres<br />

under my pillow. Safety-pinned to my undershirt, a<br />

medallion <strong>of</strong> Mary. The swell <strong>of</strong> her skirts rose in formal<br />

ridges to the press <strong>of</strong> my thumb like an itch: now <strong>and</strong> at the<br />

hour, instruction on hunger. Obediently, I followed the trails<br />

floodlit by my fevers. I watched a bleating goat tied to a<br />

rock, the bright circle <strong>of</strong> coral blooming suddenly around its<br />

neck, singed hair falling away into a roasting pit; flames fed<br />

by fat. Sometime in the night, it rained. Echoes carried


126<br />

from the other side <strong>of</strong> the forest. When I came back, on the<br />

nightst<strong>and</strong> someone had left a gift: flowers <strong>and</strong> a paper sack<br />

<strong>of</strong> fruit—expensive because imported from America—Red<br />

Delicious apples or Braeburn, Sunkist oranges glowing in their<br />

skins like animal hearts wrapped in nests <strong>of</strong> crackling tissue<br />

paper.<br />

2.<br />

The house across the street was painted pink, flanked by low<br />

porticoes <strong>and</strong> two lines <strong>of</strong> green hedges trimmed regularly by<br />

a gardener. We saw no one else on the lawn or behind the<br />

windows. A stone cherub lifted a jar in the stilled fountain.<br />

I imagined mornings wet with moss, s<strong>and</strong>als <strong>of</strong> it you might<br />

scrape loose from the pads <strong>of</strong> rooted feet. Who lived there<br />

came only in the summers, <strong>and</strong> left again before the rains<br />

began. The air was always thin in that northern climate.<br />

We had no fireplace, no hot showers; we heated bath water<br />

in aluminum pots on gas stoves, most days, November to<br />

February. The liquid gas came in blue cylinders we could<br />

buy from the corner store <strong>and</strong> roll down the street to our<br />

gate. Who knew when they'd cut the power <strong>and</strong> when we'd<br />

get it back again, especially in typhoon weather? We<br />

dragged the mattresses from our beds <strong>and</strong> lay them in the<br />

middle <strong>of</strong> the living room floor, away from boarded-up<br />

windows. We ate tinned fish <strong>and</strong> rice, lit c<strong>and</strong>les stuck in<br />

empty Coke or beer bottles. The walls filled with shadows<br />

as h<strong>and</strong>s told stories that might shift, away from bolder<br />

light. We gathered the melted wax into balls, their rinds as<br />

thick <strong>and</strong> smoky as those collected from c<strong>and</strong>les on the day<br />

<strong>of</strong> the dead. Near the end <strong>of</strong> the year, when the monsoons<br />

lifted, sunflowers blazed on all the hillsides. One New<br />

Year's Eve, near dawn—after the haze <strong>of</strong> gunpowder from<br />

sparklers <strong>and</strong> Catherine-wheels, Roman Fountains, Judas<br />

Belts, Triangles, Watusi <strong>and</strong> Whistle Bombs had settled<br />

over our ro<strong>of</strong>s <strong>and</strong> streets—we woke to see the pink house<br />

torched by flames. We stood alert at our thresholds,<br />

sleeping children gathered in our arms, their mouths still<br />

fragrant from the New Year feast. Years after, the cherub in<br />

the garden held its water jar, steadfast in the aftermath <strong>of</strong><br />

ruin <strong>and</strong> weather.


128<br />

—MIKE ALBO<br />

Glenn Horton<br />

On the first day <strong>of</strong> acting class, Glenn got up to perform his<br />

monologue. "Now this will be difficult for me, because <strong>of</strong> my<br />

twenty years <strong>of</strong> suffering ... Right, Doug?"—Doug was our teacher,<br />

who, I gathered, Glenn had known previously—"My twenty years<br />

<strong>of</strong> suffering?"<br />

Glenn Horton had this accent that I imagine would be<br />

considered mid-Atlantic. He arbitrarily left <strong>of</strong>f his r's, like Roddy<br />

MacDowell, Thurston Howell III, or anyone on Murder, She Wrote.<br />

In his chair, preparing for the monologue (from Equus), he rubbed<br />

his h<strong>and</strong>s over his bare knees. He was wearing mint-green shorts<br />

<strong>and</strong> a short-sleeved button-down shirt <strong>and</strong> a little fanny pack that<br />

he never took <strong>of</strong>f. He had a trim white beard <strong>and</strong> hair that he must<br />

have blown dry with one <strong>of</strong> those round brushes, back <strong>and</strong> back,<br />

until it rested, wispy <strong>and</strong> silvery, high on his forehead.<br />

He recited the Equus monologue admirably, <strong>and</strong> then Doug<br />

told him it was too polished <strong>and</strong> theatrical <strong>and</strong> asked him to try an<br />

exercise—to tell us, in his own words, about something that had<br />

happened to him. Glenn crossed his arms over his round torso.<br />

"Can I talk about my twenty years <strong>of</strong> suffering?" he asked. Doug<br />

nodded yes.<br />

A few years ago, Glenn told us, he was dark, sad, suicidal. He<br />

felt he had nothing to live for. He hated people, he felt almost sick<br />

with depression <strong>and</strong> thought <strong>of</strong> killing himself constantly. He hated<br />

doctors, barely went to them, but decided to go to one, finally. "Dr.<br />

Braun on 14 th Street. Marvelous man." He described his symptoms,<br />

<strong>and</strong> the doctor told him it sounded like he was suffering from some<br />

physical malady.<br />

"They ran some tests <strong>and</strong> it turned out that I had a parasite.<br />

'Do you remember ever swallowing an extraordinary amount <strong>of</strong><br />

contaminated water?' the doctor asked me, <strong>and</strong> I remembered that<br />

I had, twenty years previously, saved a girl from drowning in a lake<br />

outside <strong>of</strong> Boston, <strong>and</strong> that I had swallowed a huge amount <strong>of</strong><br />

water." While he told us the story he rose slowly, stretching out his<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s in expressive slow motion. He darted his eyes from me to<br />

Binky to Jamie to Lisa <strong>and</strong> to Doug, <strong>and</strong> to everyone else in the<br />

class. "And the parasites, over this twenty years <strong>of</strong> my goddamn<br />

fucking messed-up life, had traveled from my stomach, all the way<br />

up to my brain, <strong>and</strong> they were eating my brain!" Luckily, the doctor<br />

gave Glenn Horton medication, which rid him <strong>of</strong> the creatures,<br />

<strong>and</strong> he returned to normal. "I felt as if an anvil had been lifted <strong>of</strong>f<br />

me, <strong>and</strong> now it's been five years, <strong>and</strong> I've never never been happier<br />

<strong>and</strong> more happy to be alive in my whole life!" He jumped toward<br />

us, <strong>and</strong> spun around, <strong>and</strong> everyone in the class sat there, mouths<br />

agape. Suddenly everyone applauded.<br />

I got up to do my monologue, a very funny scene from<br />

Christopher Durang's Laughing Wild. I bombed. I began the scene<br />

confidently but then looked at all the little eyes <strong>of</strong> everyone<br />

assessing me, <strong>and</strong> I became more nervous than I ever had in front<br />

<strong>of</strong> people, stricken with cottonmouth. I yapped <strong>and</strong> smacked with<br />

my dry towel tongue <strong>and</strong> my lips curled <strong>and</strong> affixed onto my teeth<br />

like a second grade joke. "That... was interesting," Binky said. "I<br />

liked the simplicity," Mark said. Doug gave me a few pointers.<br />

Everyone else was silent, <strong>and</strong> the class ended, <strong>and</strong> everyone got their<br />

books quickly <strong>and</strong> left.<br />

We were assigned scene partners. Doug paired me with Glenn<br />

Horton. I was to go to his apartment that weekend to rehearse. "I<br />

have the perfect scene," Glenn said to me immediately, grabbing my<br />

forearm. "From a play called Mass Appeal. We play two priests."<br />

Glenn's apartment on 45 th <strong>and</strong> 2 nd Avenue seemed slanted. I<br />

climbed four flights <strong>of</strong> crooked stairs, <strong>and</strong> he stood at the dark red<br />

Formica l<strong>and</strong>ing with a little greasy, snuffing dog. "Irene, get back,<br />

let Michael through—Oh, rollerblades! My, my, aren't you sporty!"


130<br />

He motioned me in through the dark brown doorway, into his<br />

apartment. "I've been meaning to learn to rollerblade. I am trying<br />

to exercise more. I bought a Sol<strong>of</strong>lex machine." And there it stood,<br />

in the corner <strong>of</strong> his living room, next to a bookshelf <strong>of</strong> paperbacks<br />

<strong>and</strong> plays with crumbling bindings. Dingy shades were drawn over<br />

the two windows like yellow chainsmoker fingernails. All the walls<br />

in every room were paneled with dark bulletin board cork.<br />

He <strong>of</strong>fered me red wine. "I've lived here for twenty-six years. It's<br />

so hot out... I apologize. Are you warm?" he said, turning on the<br />

brown floor fan shaped like a tuffet. "Are you warm, Irene? Why<br />

don't you go lie down, darling?" The small dog looked up at him<br />

<strong>and</strong> then ambled <strong>of</strong>f into his bedroom. "I kept this apartment even<br />

when I was living in California with my wife. She always thought it<br />

was such an extravagance. I suppose I knew someday I would need<br />

it. I miss her, but we were never right for each other." Glenn was<br />

cautious with me, the way many older gay men are—like their<br />

sexuality is something to carefully bare, as if we were Communists<br />

<strong>and</strong> it was the fifties. As if we were gay <strong>and</strong> it was the fifties.<br />

Slowly, he opened up darkly, like we were sitting at a speakeasy.<br />

Glenn lit many cigarettes. "Tell me, Michael. I haven't been in<br />

circulation for years—because <strong>of</strong>, you know, my twenty years <strong>of</strong> suffering.<br />

I was lucky, very lucky I didn't get sick. But how do you date<br />

now? How do you meet people?" He fixed his bangs with his<br />

fingertips. I told him I usually meet guys in my neighborhood, at<br />

parties or bars, just around, in the East Village, I guess. He made me<br />

feel very shy for some reason. "There are gay bars in the East Village<br />

now?" he asked. "Michael. I don't even know how to practice safe<br />

sex. What is it? What do you do?" I told him he should use a<br />

condom. "Michael, tell me, honestly... When you first saw me, did<br />

you think I was gay?" "Yea ..." I said.<br />

In class the next week, Glenn did a monologue from The Winter's<br />

Tale. Again, Doug gave him an exercise, telling him to visualize<br />

someone from his past he wanted to confront. Glenn immediately<br />

shook, staring at someone that had materialized in front <strong>of</strong> him.<br />

"Who is it?" Doug asked.<br />

"It... it's my father," Glenn shakily said.<br />

"Tell him what you have always wanted to say, Glenn."<br />

His arms were shuddering. He had on his mint green shorts <strong>and</strong><br />

his legs shuddered, too. "You never let me do what I wanted to do.<br />

You were crazy with your metal plate in your head. You came back<br />

from the war crazy <strong>and</strong> you hated me. I wasn't strong enough for<br />

you." He began to shriek, "You hit me! I didn't want to play baseball<br />

<strong>and</strong> you made me <strong>and</strong> then you hit me! You knew I was<br />

weaker than you!" He sat back down <strong>and</strong> cried. Jamie got up <strong>and</strong><br />

hugged him. We all cried.<br />

"What a breakthrough!" Doug exclaimed.<br />

In the scene we were rehearsing, Glenn played Father Farley, the<br />

rector <strong>of</strong> a church, <strong>and</strong> I was Mark Dolson, a rebellious seminarian<br />

who argues with him during his mass. In the scene, Father Farley<br />

called me into his <strong>of</strong>fice to reprim<strong>and</strong> me for trying to make a fool<br />

<strong>of</strong> him in front <strong>of</strong> his congregation, <strong>and</strong> I tried to st<strong>and</strong> up for<br />

myself.<br />

At his apartment the following weekend, Glenn would lapse<br />

out <strong>of</strong> the script <strong>and</strong> into the long, strange saga <strong>of</strong> his life.<br />

On his marriage: "She was the smartest, most wonderful person<br />

in the world. She knew I wasn't attracted to her fully, so she let me<br />

g°-"<br />

On his short military career: "I kept sleepwalking <strong>and</strong> one time<br />

they found me miles from the barracks. I had scaled the razor wire<br />

fence <strong>and</strong> fallen asleep in the firing range. They let me go."<br />

On gay life in the sixties New York: "I swear, Michael, there<br />

wasn't a day that passed for three years, from about 1968 to 1971<br />

when I did not have sex at least twice a day. Men were everywhere.<br />

In the alleys, on the street, in the hallways, everywhere."<br />

Not much was tacked to the cork walls, a few light pencil<br />

drawings, a cross, <strong>and</strong> one photo <strong>of</strong> a younger Glenn Horton, about<br />

thirty-five, with an even younger man, about twenty-five. The<br />

picture was in black-<strong>and</strong>-white, <strong>and</strong> they wore Old West casino<br />

clothes—"one <strong>of</strong> those olden time pictures you get at the beach.<br />

That's Tony with me. I hope he's rotting in hell."<br />

One time, Glenn told me, before he met Tony, he was at a bar<br />

in the West Village <strong>and</strong> he met a man who had no arms or legs.<br />

Glenn chatted with him, <strong>and</strong> then the man asked him very plainly<br />

to have sex with him. "So I brought him back here <strong>and</strong> screwed the


132<br />

hell out <strong>of</strong> him. It was like fucking a turtle, hahahahaha!" The door<br />

<strong>of</strong> his bedroom was half open. I glanced into it while he laughed. Its<br />

walls were also lined with dark cork. On the wall above his bed an<br />

Abdominizer, Thighmaster <strong>and</strong> Ab Blaster were hanging like<br />

paintings.<br />

In class the next Tuesday we performed our scene. Glenn came<br />

in wearing an entire priest's outfit, collar <strong>and</strong> all. "I have to do<br />

everything in full costume, ever since I did The Importance <strong>of</strong> Being<br />

Earnest in 1971." Glenn played his part wonderfully, getting laughs<br />

<strong>and</strong> guffaws with every response, playing <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> me while I sat there,<br />

suddenly nervous <strong>and</strong> dry-mouthed again, barely remembering my<br />

lines.<br />

"Wow," Doug exclaimed to Glenn. "You have really come a<br />

long way. I recognized your action <strong>and</strong> objective; your lines were<br />

textured <strong>and</strong> varied." Then Doug turned to me. "You need to do a<br />

lot <strong>of</strong> instrument work," he said.<br />

Later in the class, we paired <strong>of</strong>f to do some relationship exercises.<br />

One was called, "Observe, Wonder <strong>and</strong> Perceive," in which the two<br />

people stare at each other <strong>and</strong> comment about how they look <strong>and</strong><br />

act, following the three verbs.<br />

"I observe you are wearing a pistachio-like colored shirt," I said.<br />

"I wonder why you always seem to wear that color. I perceive you<br />

like that color fabric."<br />

"I observe tension in your mouth <strong>and</strong> jaw," Glenn said, "I wonder<br />

why you are so nervous; I wonder if you really want to take this<br />

acting class. I perceive that you are trying to prove something to<br />

yourself, <strong>and</strong> that you are too concerned with how other people see<br />

you.<br />

"I observe your hair is very combed. I wonder if you blow-dry<br />

it—"<br />

"I observe you still have tension around the mouth," Glenn<br />

interrupted. "I wonder what you want to do in this class. I wonder<br />

if you will ever have a breakthrough like I did—"<br />

I interrupted Glenn. "I wonder if I will be like you when I am<br />

your age."<br />

Glenn smiled, exposing his brown smoker's gums.<br />

"You forgot to observe first," he said.<br />

-MIKE ALBO<br />

The Fudge Jungle<br />

The Great American Fudge Factory is an unfortunate name.<br />

Especially if you are working there <strong>and</strong> are coming out <strong>of</strong> the<br />

closet. I met Jay at The Great American Fudge Factory, where we<br />

both worked, in Crystal City, Virginia—the outskirts <strong>of</strong><br />

Washington, DC. The mall was half underground, low brick walls<br />

with thick glass-block windows peeking out on the surface—like<br />

one <strong>of</strong> those new subterranean science magnet schools in the<br />

suburbs. We moved up to New York after our stint there in the early<br />

90s. He got a job as a fashion editor's assistant. I photocopied at<br />

Ken's Copies.<br />

I watched Jay transform himself. It's something I don't think<br />

would happen now, because becoming gay isn't such a religiously<br />

life-changing act anymore, since we all became boring somewhere<br />

around 1997. He wasn't out <strong>of</strong> the closet when we became friends<br />

in Virginia. He didn't wave his arms around, or say "fierce," or<br />

smoke, or have that lip-licking overactive mouth. He wore a thin<br />

bracelet <strong>of</strong> cowboy gift shop origin around his thin wrist. He had a<br />

matching belt buckle that, like his blue eyes, tipped toward the<br />

light. He tucked in his shirts, rolled up his cuffs, had black hair on<br />

his h<strong>and</strong>s. Jay was a waiter <strong>and</strong> served families in green booths mild<br />

guacamole. He walked through the restaurant with his head in a<br />

fixed position like he had no peripheral vision. He was stiff <strong>and</strong><br />

chesty like a common starched lapel.<br />

He knew I was gay because one time this tall black guy walked


134<br />

into the bar area, <strong>and</strong> I said he was hot. He smiled <strong>and</strong> put his h<strong>and</strong>s<br />

low on his hips like a track <strong>and</strong> field athlete <strong>and</strong> shook his head,<br />

"Mike, you're so funny."<br />

"GAFF" is one <strong>of</strong> those "fancy" chain restaurants. Not like<br />

theme-soaked restaurants—Hard Rock Cafe <strong>and</strong> Planet Hollywood—but<br />

more like TGIF or Chili's or Houlihan's with knickyknacky<br />

clutter on the walls like tubas <strong>and</strong> old movie posters <strong>and</strong> ads<br />

with Gibson Girls—an attempt to co-opt nostalgia from other, real<br />

places in a desperate attempt to make you remember their<br />

un-unique, vacuumed void.<br />

I was a host. I would st<strong>and</strong> in a red <strong>and</strong> white striped oxford<br />

shirt <strong>and</strong> hold their huge menus <strong>of</strong> over exuberant food descriptions.<br />

Appetizers that were always hybrids <strong>of</strong> two substances perfectly fine<br />

on their own: Quesaskins! Cajun Spaghetti! Taco Fortune Cookies!<br />

I was required to say the word "Enjoy!" after sitting every table.<br />

Desserts were the menu centerpiece at the Fudge Factory <strong>and</strong><br />

were described as the most taboo, extravagant, insane stimulation<br />

you could ever experience, ever. People came to GAFF to pretend<br />

they were doing something racy with their night, so when it got<br />

time for desserts you had to act excited about whether they were<br />

going to be able to cram dessert into their stuffed, belching<br />

stomachs. The biggest was the Fudge Jungle—which received a<br />

special highlighted panel on the table trees. The Fudge Jungle was a<br />

huge, mutating pile <strong>of</strong> ice cream <strong>and</strong> chocolate cake <strong>and</strong> icing.<br />

There was a particular ritual every time someone ordered one.<br />

You'd go to their table <strong>and</strong> they would say, always, "Ooh, I am so<br />

stuffed! I couldn't eat another bite, except for, maybe, the Fudge<br />

Jungle. What is that?"<br />

And you would have to become suddenly animated <strong>and</strong><br />

describe it with C<strong>and</strong>yl<strong>and</strong> happiness: "The Fudge Jungle? Why,<br />

that is The Great American Fudge Factory's own ultimate dessert!<br />

It's a sinful, decadent beast <strong>of</strong> hot fudge <strong>and</strong> chocolate, sinfully delicious<br />

seven layer cake topped with a layer <strong>of</strong> cool vanilla ice cream,<br />

mocha morsels, colored jimmies, cinnamon doughnut holes,<br />

whipped cream, <strong>and</strong> cherries, <strong>and</strong> free figurines <strong>of</strong> Marvin Fudge<br />

<strong>and</strong> his dog, Morsel, our GAFF mascots! Which your children can<br />

take home!"<br />

The patron would always say, "Ooooh I don't know ... Should<br />

I get it?" scrunching his face in fake pain, <strong>and</strong> then say, "Oh, it's just<br />

too sinful <strong>and</strong> decadent to pass up! I'll get it!!" You would have to<br />

give them a h<strong>and</strong>ful <strong>of</strong> forks because they would always ask for<br />

them. "It's a good thing you brought more forks. I couldn't eat this<br />

alone!" Every five minutes you would have to walk by <strong>and</strong> say "How<br />

is it?!" smiling <strong>and</strong> concerned, <strong>and</strong> they would say, "Ooh, it is so<br />

big," <strong>and</strong> you would say, "Yea, I know. It's big."<br />

"Yea. It's really, really big," they would say.<br />

And in fifteen minutes, you would walk up to them <strong>and</strong> they<br />

would look at you as if they had been very, very naughty. "I just<br />

couldn't finish it! Would you mind wrapping it up for me?" And<br />

then you'd lift up the dripping, grayed carcass reverently <strong>and</strong> bring<br />

it to the back, sliding it <strong>of</strong>f the oblong platter <strong>and</strong> into a styr<strong>of</strong>oam<br />

container, dribbling the melted sludge <strong>of</strong> ice cream <strong>and</strong> cream <strong>and</strong><br />

jimmies <strong>and</strong> liquefied cake innards onto the top. Whenever anyone<br />

had to do this, the rest <strong>of</strong> the staff, on their way to their popcorn<br />

shrimp orders, whined, "Ewww!" as they scooted by.<br />

Jay was very efficient about his Fudge Jungle orders. He would<br />

dump them into their styr<strong>of</strong>oam containers without wincing or<br />

making any noises like the rest <strong>of</strong> us. He never ate garlic bread from<br />

the fulfillment stations, never stole the refrigerated blondies from<br />

the walk-in, never befriended Dan the bartender so that he could<br />

slam tequila shots while the managers were in the back <strong>of</strong>fice.<br />

Jay had two sporty, short female friends, Jennie <strong>and</strong> Megan,<br />

that would come by GAFF at the end <strong>of</strong> the night. They both<br />

frequently wore men's boxers <strong>and</strong> baggy sweaters <strong>and</strong> had their hair<br />

in banana clips. Sometimes a group <strong>of</strong> us would go to Jay's place<br />

after the last shift <strong>and</strong> Jennie <strong>and</strong> Megan would already be there,<br />

lounging on the ratty couch, singing Blues Traveler songs loudly. He<br />

had pictures <strong>of</strong> them <strong>and</strong> other friends from college under the glass<br />

he had placed on top <strong>of</strong> his kitchen table. One time Jay had a<br />

barbecue party, <strong>and</strong> Megan put on Jay's blazer over her snowflake<br />

sweater, <strong>and</strong> Jennie <strong>and</strong> I talked about the beach. We all got drunk,<br />

<strong>and</strong> Jay unbuttoned his blue pastel oxford shirt <strong>and</strong> danced to<br />

George Michael. "Jay is so funny!" Jennie said.<br />

One Friday night, the busiest night, when GAFF was filled


136<br />

with middle managers, old fattened dorm suite partiers, <strong>and</strong> the<br />

crazy cashiers from Cosmetics Plus, Jay <strong>and</strong> I were both swamped at<br />

work <strong>and</strong> were busy entering our food "price lookup codes" ("plu's"<br />

they were called). I was frantically entering my codes for a table <strong>of</strong><br />

chilly obsessives from a comic book convention, <strong>and</strong> Jay came up<br />

behind me, pretending to be impatient, tapping his foot. "Hurry up<br />

<strong>and</strong> plu, Dorothy!" he said to me—his first subterranean, referential<br />

homo joke. I looked at him, <strong>and</strong> he smiled <strong>and</strong> dragged his fingers<br />

across the register like he had long nails.<br />

Then, within a week, he was gay. It was as if he had seen the<br />

figure <strong>of</strong> Mother Mary in a tortilla or something. He came out on<br />

Coming Out Day, walking in to work wearing a Coming Out Day<br />

T-shirt that had a festive Keith Haring drawing <strong>of</strong> sexless figures<br />

arm in arm, above a pink triangle, crooked lines circling it like a<br />

rough halo. Everyone was very nice to him. People at work put<br />

together a Coming Out cake made from the Fudge Factory's special<br />

Fudge Jungle. Everyone howled "Woooooo!" They used sparklers<br />

from the Party Pinata, the alcohol-drenched, margarita-flavored<br />

birthday boat for twelve.<br />

He began reading male fashion magazines, buying structured<br />

sweaters <strong>and</strong> carrying them in brown bags with jute, looped<br />

h<strong>and</strong>les. He unstiffened, <strong>and</strong> suddenly a series <strong>of</strong> sissied gestures<br />

appeared. He would tuck one h<strong>and</strong> under his arm <strong>and</strong> gesticulate<br />

with the other. He would st<strong>and</strong> in a balletic third position while he<br />

dumped out Fudge Jungles, <strong>and</strong> he put his h<strong>and</strong>s on the tail <strong>of</strong> his<br />

back like an art director.<br />

One time a real art director, man in his forties with silver hair<br />

<strong>and</strong> a tight biking Mylar top, came into GAFF. He sat at Jay's #6<br />

table. Jay went up to him <strong>and</strong> sang, "Hi." I saw him talking to the<br />

man for a long time, every time he went to the table. Two hours<br />

later Jay came up to me so flushed that he looked like he had<br />

washed his face with an expensive scrub. "That guy is an editor at<br />

Le Men Magazine, <strong>and</strong> he <strong>of</strong>fered me a job!"<br />

My grin probably looked real, but it felt so false on my face. I<br />

couldn't believe how fast Jay was ensconced into the velvet like a<br />

jewel. He was barely a baby gay pearl <strong>and</strong> already he had a job, the<br />

gestures, the confidence, <strong>and</strong> the language in him. I was envious, I<br />

guess. If this envy were a liquid, though, sitting there in my chest in<br />

a clear test tube, there would be a visible reddish tint <strong>of</strong> lust, because<br />

I was suddenly attracted to Jay in all his rapid incarnations.<br />

Soon he had actually l<strong>and</strong>ed an editor's assistant job at Le Men,<br />

<strong>and</strong> he put in his two weeks notice. "I am moving to NYC girl!!" He<br />

said, grabbing the bells <strong>of</strong> my pelvis. "All right!" I said.<br />

We had a party for him at GAFF, <strong>and</strong> the staff made a little<br />

"Jay's going to NYC" box, which had in it mace, Vienna sausages,<br />

rope for clothesline, a RuPaul tape, a Zagat's restaurant guide, <strong>and</strong><br />

lots <strong>of</strong> condoms. He would pull out every object in the box <strong>and</strong><br />

everyone would howl "Woooo!" At three a.m. he put his arm<br />

around me, his sweat-stained shirt soaking into my shoulder. "I<br />

guess I am the first one out <strong>of</strong> prison, Miss Thing!" he said. He<br />

laughed, <strong>and</strong> I laughed.<br />

I moved here to New York a little later than he did, <strong>and</strong> I<br />

couldn't find a job, except for this one at Ken's Copies. They trained<br />

me for two weeks without pay. They have this motto: "Ken's! We're<br />

always o-PEN!" <strong>and</strong> you have to say this every time you answer the<br />

phone or service someone at the counter: "Hello, I'm Mike,<br />

welcome to Ken's! We're always o-PEN! How may I be <strong>of</strong> assistance<br />

to you?" There are monitors, hired specially by Ken's Copies<br />

higher-ups, who disguise themselves as customers <strong>and</strong> come in <strong>and</strong><br />

observe your performance. If you don't say the little statement, they<br />

pull out a badge like the FBI <strong>and</strong> fire you immediately. It's hard to<br />

remember, especially when you work the five a.m. to three p.m.<br />

shift, which is what I worked when I started, <strong>and</strong> you are so drowsy<br />

you drool on the paper clips. Jay would sometimes come in at seven<br />

in the morning, lit up on some drug, in a vinyl vest <strong>and</strong> Adidas<br />

warm-ups, with a group <strong>of</strong> five fried friends. "We just came from<br />

Bitchy Queen <strong>and</strong> we turned it out, do you hear me?!" he might say.<br />

It was nice <strong>of</strong> him to stop in. He introduced me to all his<br />

friends. "This is Blane, Jared, Charles, Thomas <strong>and</strong> Mecca." All <strong>of</strong><br />

them, except for Blane, would have to be re-introduced to me every<br />

time they came in to Ken's to visit. "You guys, have you met my<br />

friend Mike?" They would look at me silently, shaking their heads<br />

'no,' barely detectable on the wobbly thin springs <strong>of</strong> their skinny<br />

blue-veined necks. Blane was wiry <strong>and</strong> nice, <strong>and</strong> snorted


138<br />

constantly. One time he came in without Jay at eleven in the morning,<br />

his hair pushed to one side, red eyes, looking like someone<br />

fluish in a Nyquil commercial, holding a short dirty stack <strong>of</strong><br />

pictures. "Missy! I found the most major Polaroids <strong>of</strong> shoes on the<br />

street! Look!"<br />

Jay would call me at work all the time, while I stood in front <strong>of</strong><br />

a photocopier, its green light scanning my face. He would call me<br />

in the morning whispering into the phone, over at some man's place<br />

who always sounded the same. Someone with wide shoulders <strong>and</strong> a<br />

wedgecut. "Are you going to work?" I would ask like a mother. "I<br />

am in a little bit. I'll tell them I have shingles or something; I don't<br />

know."<br />

He started going to the gym. His body changed from thin <strong>and</strong><br />

knobby to structured <strong>and</strong> puffy. He wore tight clothes <strong>and</strong> put gel<br />

in his hair <strong>and</strong> wore Fahrenheit cologne. He said "sister" to me <strong>and</strong><br />

called other gay guys "she" <strong>and</strong> wore many tank tops. He shaved his<br />

pumped-up body <strong>and</strong> dyed his eyebrows blond. He began putting<br />

Visine in his eyes to make them glassy <strong>and</strong> diluted into a light blue.<br />

It worked, <strong>and</strong> his eyes looked like the eyes <strong>of</strong> soap opera blind<br />

people—cornflower <strong>and</strong> far away.<br />

He took me out one Saturday night, "The worst night <strong>of</strong> the<br />

week," <strong>and</strong> we did ecstasy <strong>and</strong> went to Bitchy Queen <strong>and</strong> danced<br />

with hundreds <strong>of</strong> men with white or no shirts. The music was<br />

pleasurable when it vibrated my stomach. When we danced, he<br />

looked above my head, or jiggled around <strong>and</strong> turned his back to me,<br />

looking at everyone around him.<br />

One night I stopped by his place <strong>and</strong> he opened the door <strong>and</strong><br />

said he was leaving soon, but that I could come in, whatever. He<br />

wore a tiger print shirt <strong>and</strong> we sat in his kitchen reading our I<br />

Ching. He had just bought a 1950s vintage kitchen table with little<br />

drawings <strong>of</strong> waffles all over it. Suddenly, his eyes glowing, he<br />

stood up, "I have to go."<br />

"Why?" I said.<br />

"It's really none <strong>of</strong> your business," he said <strong>and</strong> then retracted<br />

from the bite <strong>of</strong> his words, "I am so freaked. I've got totally a<br />

million things to do."<br />

I didn't call him for a week; he didn't call for three months.<br />

Then I saw him on the subway <strong>and</strong> we said, "How are you!" excitedly<br />

to each other. A long time after that, he called me from a<br />

cellular phone when he was on Atticus, this huge aircraft carrier<br />

turned into a gay floating cruise ship that blasts dance music on its<br />

mile-wide bed for ten thous<strong>and</strong> tan men screaming, "Woooo!" at<br />

the constant missiles <strong>of</strong> fireworks. "I am so high!" he said, <strong>and</strong> then<br />

I said, "Don't fall <strong>of</strong>f," <strong>and</strong> he said something <strong>and</strong> gave the phone<br />

back to Saul, his rich 6'5" podiatrist boyfriend at the time, whom<br />

he had met at the gym.<br />

Yesterday I was walking down 16 th Street <strong>and</strong> I bent down to tie<br />

my shoe (this really happened!), <strong>and</strong> I looked up at the steps<br />

leading to an apartment building, <strong>and</strong> Jay came out with five<br />

friends, all gorgeous, cheekbones <strong>and</strong> brown brows. "Hey!" I said.<br />

At first he looked at me like I was a coat check person, <strong>and</strong> then I<br />

saw him realize he had known me since last year—long, long ago—<br />

when he had not yet designed his life. His face twitched <strong>and</strong> he said<br />

hi to me. His friends looked at me absently, <strong>and</strong> he kept walking.


140<br />

—WAYNE KOESTENBAUM<br />

Lanolin<br />

Without lanolin<br />

Lana was pale <strong>and</strong> worn.<br />

She told me, "The bug<br />

removed my lanolin."<br />

I wish I understood<br />

lanolin's undercover properties:<br />

linoleum, longing,<br />

lanterloo, lantana?<br />

Lana on the phone—<br />

in death's presence—<br />

shrieked: "I've lost my lanolin."<br />

No fault <strong>of</strong> mine!<br />

Lanolin-deprived, she took<br />

a secretarial job in the Orient<br />

<strong>and</strong> loudly typed: "I dislike<br />

your world-conquering schemes.<br />

My crimes: a mind on lanolin;<br />

a loud voice everyone can hear.<br />

Essay on Libido<br />

Let's treat libido at least<br />

as politely as we'd treat a waiter in a moderately<br />

good restaurant, asking for the specials <strong>and</strong> an<br />

opinion about the flan with a genuine <strong>and</strong> selfish<br />

curiosity about the answers we'll receive.<br />

Oh, yes, the Pr<strong>of</strong>essor says, we have grown<br />

far from our "childish enthusiasms," though<br />

pleasure's fits <strong>and</strong> starts drove us<br />

to pursue this unrewarding<br />

discipline—the still unheard <strong>and</strong> un-<br />

mollified call <strong>of</strong> earliness, like morning<br />

eurythmic exercises stretching our mental<br />

faculties against infatuation's<br />

resistance, a heavy weight!<br />

I can't bear to be libido's<br />

diplomat—it's too<br />

problematic, the word we use when something<br />

bothers us <strong>and</strong> we don't know how else to explain it.


142<br />

Movies Ending by the Sea<br />

No one underst<strong>and</strong>s:<br />

I want negation.<br />

And what <strong>of</strong> my mother?<br />

Didn't she discover me?<br />

Didn't she fold<br />

bath towels <strong>and</strong> washcloths,<br />

teach me how<br />

to spell "egg,"<br />

describe her childhood<br />

without a raincoat?<br />

Is it too late to enroll<br />

in a Great Books college<br />

so I can torture myself<br />

with erudition?<br />

Many movies end<br />

with seaside scenes.<br />

I starred in a maritime documentary<br />

depicting small boats versus large,<br />

sailors within sailors—<br />

a must-see,<br />

though not about prose or poetry,<br />

mostly about truncation,<br />

a variety <strong>of</strong> valor,<br />

like not getting out <strong>of</strong> bed.<br />

Someone in the screening<br />

room "stook up"<br />

for my mother, said<br />

not nice things about her son:<br />

Where is his appetite?<br />

Please pour a petite<br />

geyser <strong>of</strong> flattery<br />

on my forehead.<br />

Hack<br />

emotional thoroughness-<br />

hence the sea's<br />

sidereal farewell.


144<br />

-KERRY HANLON<br />

My Husb<strong>and</strong>'s Skin<br />

1.<br />

Something is happening to my husb<strong>and</strong>. He played a game in<br />

the city last night <strong>and</strong> today his legs are red. He thinks it has to do<br />

with sweat. I don't think sweat ought to damage the body. I don't<br />

want him to have these kinds <strong>of</strong> problems.<br />

Can I love someone with a skin disorder that is slowly revealing<br />

itself? I want to say yes. If I doubt my love for one moment I turn<br />

cruel. My love makes Gordon bearable. Without it, nothing is<br />

salvageable. Gordon is no longer Gordon but an unbearable body<br />

covered with problems. I am no longer myself, but a person<br />

painstakingly in tune with each <strong>of</strong> Gordon's unbearable characteristics.<br />

Usually, I love Gordon. I pinch him <strong>and</strong> touch his ears. I buy<br />

his favorite kind <strong>of</strong> cheese. I tell him everything that I feel. But I<br />

worry. I worry that my cruelty is always there <strong>and</strong> that it is packed<br />

<strong>and</strong> hidden in the things I say to him.<br />

"Gordon," I say.<br />

In the next sentence I hide it. Anybody who knows me would<br />

be able to detect that something is hidden inside. To somebody who<br />

knows me well it would be very detectable, maybe deafening. It is<br />

sharp—I could call it a jag. I slip under what sounds like a question<br />

<strong>and</strong> then I steer.<br />

Gordon is sleeping. I move in the room. I make everything<br />

clean. I memorize German <strong>and</strong> mumble the same words many<br />

times. Some <strong>of</strong> the words I mumble right near his ears. "I'm not<br />

keeping you awake, am I?"<br />

Gordon drags the pillow closer to his head. His eyes open <strong>and</strong><br />

shut.<br />

I move closer. "Am I?"<br />

He rubs his face on the pillow. "Yes ... yes ... w-what?"<br />

"You didn't hear me." I pet his eyebrow, full <strong>of</strong> underst<strong>and</strong>ing.<br />

"You were sleeping."<br />

"Oh. Good." He shuts his eyes.<br />

I begin my treatment. "What time did you come to bed last<br />

night?"<br />

He flips painfully from his right side to his left <strong>and</strong> back again<br />

like a fish that can't breathe. "When?"<br />

"Last night."<br />

"I don't know. Not late."<br />

"But you need more sleep?"<br />

His eyes are closed, his mouth is open <strong>and</strong> gasping. "Yes."<br />

"Are you just tired because you're lying down?"<br />

"Do you want me to get up?" His sentence is full <strong>of</strong> spite. I hear<br />

it. Spite pulls the syllables taut.<br />

"No, no," I say. "Sleep. I'll go out <strong>and</strong> run err<strong>and</strong>s to give you<br />

some quiet. I don't want you getting sicker."<br />

There is a huge quiet which wouldn't have been noticed if it<br />

weren't for all the small noises pointing to it. A slight wheeze behind<br />

Gordon's breath. The applause <strong>of</strong> a studio audience on a talk show<br />

on the neighbor's television set. The wind creaking the swings <strong>and</strong><br />

blowing s<strong>and</strong> on the slide in the playground.<br />

"I'm not sick," says Gordon.<br />

"You are," I pat his feet <strong>and</strong> put on a scarf. "Your eyes can't<br />

open. Your skin problem is using up a big percentage <strong>of</strong> your body's<br />

energy." I am artfully matter-<strong>of</strong>-fact.<br />

Gordon's eyes open. "I'll get up in fifteen minutes," he blurts.<br />

I look away <strong>and</strong> by the time I look back, his eyes are shut again.<br />

I st<strong>and</strong> by the bed <strong>and</strong> wring my neck with my scarf. Gordon holds<br />

on tight to two fistfuls <strong>of</strong> sheet.<br />

"Don't tell me things that aren't true," I say. His head rolls<br />

toward the wall.<br />

"Gordon—" I can't see his face. The eleven a.m. sunlight is<br />

white <strong>and</strong> enormous. It comes through the window as insistent as a


146<br />

glacier, pressing Gordon on all sides, trying to pry him <strong>of</strong>f the<br />

mattress. I st<strong>and</strong> on the sidelines rooting for the sun. Gordon will<br />

not budge.<br />

"Don't tell me things that aren't true, Gordon."<br />

There is a shudder in his back. He is having an earthquake. "It's<br />

true!" he shouts.<br />

I explain s<strong>of</strong>tly: "You are saying you will get up to make me<br />

happy. But I don't want you to get up at a certain time to make me<br />

happy. I want you to get up because you want to get up because you<br />

are a happy <strong>and</strong> energetic person in general <strong>and</strong> it is daytime."<br />

"I want to get up in fifteen minutes," says Gordon, holding his<br />

eyes open just slightly. The lashes are long, clumpy, <strong>and</strong><br />

s<strong>and</strong>-colored like patches <strong>of</strong> roadside weeds. I can see a sliver <strong>of</strong><br />

white <strong>and</strong> a sliver <strong>of</strong> black behind them. "Just give me fifteen<br />

minutes," he says. "Listen—" He speaks s<strong>of</strong>tly <strong>and</strong> slowly. "—In fifteen<br />

minutes... I want you to wake me up."<br />

I consider it. "No."<br />

"Why not? I wantyou to."<br />

I wrap the scarf tight on my neck <strong>and</strong> take large steps toward<br />

the coat closet. "No. If you care about getting up, just do it. It's<br />

healthier for me not to be involved in your processes."<br />

But it doesn't matter anymore if Gordon sleeps or wakes. The<br />

harmless surfaces have already accumulated <strong>and</strong> thickened. Tiny<br />

rough spots have become fault lines.<br />

"Do you see?" I ask. "Do you, Gordon?"<br />

I already know the conversation that will follow. I will draw<br />

attention to my own kindness <strong>and</strong> willingness to forgive.<br />

Illuminating not only Gordon's faults but my corresponding virtues<br />

will add a satisfying symmetry.<br />

Gordon is sitting on the edge <strong>of</strong> the bed. His pajamas are inside<br />

out. Somewhere, on the edge <strong>of</strong> my thoughts, a craving buds.<br />

I want to take a walk with Gordon. If he says no, then we will go<br />

back to the beginning. I will tell him he looks tired. I will tell him<br />

he needs to sleep more. But if he says yes, if he will take a walk with<br />

me, then the bad part will be finished. We can just step over all <strong>of</strong><br />

it, wearing shoes that we like, with the laces pulled taut. My mood<br />

will be wonderful. And I think I will be able to share it with<br />

Gordon.<br />

2.<br />

What I cannot tolerate is that something is wrong with<br />

Gordon's skin. Pimples form on his back when he sweats. If he<br />

sweats again, the pimples turn purplish. Then he takes <strong>of</strong>f his shirt<br />

<strong>and</strong> walks around. I don't know why he does this. He has tubes <strong>of</strong><br />

different lotions that he applies in the morning <strong>and</strong> at night.<br />

"What are you looking at? My arm? My back? "<br />

If I say, "Nothing," Gordon will know immediately that I am<br />

looking at his arm <strong>and</strong> back.<br />

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I have pimples." His voice is so calm that I<br />

am almost embarrassed for staring, but then he looks me right in<br />

the face <strong>and</strong> disgusts me. "I picked two <strong>of</strong> them, " he says.<br />

My shoe drops out <strong>of</strong> my h<strong>and</strong>. The heel bangs on the floor.<br />

I don't want him to be a person who has nothing better to do with<br />

his time.<br />

"Not all <strong>of</strong> them." He answers precisely the questions I think<br />

but do not ask. "Just two." The number seems larger to me than it<br />

ever has before. "I will show you," he says <strong>and</strong> before I can breathe<br />

in the breath I will need to tell him it is okay, that I believe him,<br />

that this is all unnecessary, he is turning around <strong>and</strong> he is backing<br />

toward me like a truck that does not see me <strong>and</strong> does not stop.<br />

3.<br />

Gordon rubs lotion into his skin very stupidly. I think it would<br />

be much smarter if he squeezed the tube just slightly. He needs only<br />

a small amount. The size <strong>of</strong> half <strong>of</strong> a pea.<br />

"It's more expensive than toothpaste," I say, "I don't know why<br />

you squeeze it harder. Squeeze it like toothpaste."<br />

But he has already squeezed. He rubs a fingerful into his right<br />

cheek. It is taking a very long time. After his face, he has to do his<br />

back.<br />

"Do you know why it's taking so long?"<br />

"Please," says Gordon, "Just let me finish."<br />

"You squeeze so much out that you can't rub it in. Look in the<br />

mirror, Gordon. It's not getting rubbed in."<br />

He rubs his face. "Where?"


148<br />

"Everywhere, Gordon. It's the whole way you do it."<br />

"Here?" He rubs his chin. He puts down the tube <strong>and</strong> rubs with<br />

both h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />

"You only need a little. Haifa pea."<br />

He squeezes the tube. "It won't spread to my neck. I need some<br />

on my neck."<br />

"Look." I take the tube. "You take a half-pea full. You dab it<br />

here. On the nose. On the chin. Dab on each cheek. Dab on the<br />

forehead. Here, here, here." I h<strong>and</strong> him the tube. "Use one<br />

finger."<br />

Gordon goes into the bathroom.<br />

"You're going into the bathroom so you can do it the old bad<br />

way," I say. The doorbell rings.<br />

A man with glasses is there. He is tail <strong>and</strong> lanky. Even his face<br />

is lanky. His chin, his cheeks, his forehead, his shoulder—almost<br />

every part <strong>of</strong> his body bears a slight resemblance to knees. And his<br />

knees are more knee-like than any I've seen before. His hair <strong>and</strong><br />

beard are too bushy; at the top <strong>of</strong> his neck I see a knee-like face<br />

caught in a bush. He asks which building is number six. I walk with<br />

him to the door <strong>and</strong> point. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rings.<br />

It is him again.<br />

"I am Pastor Knees," he says. He smells like c<strong>of</strong>fee. Creamy <strong>and</strong><br />

kind <strong>of</strong> burnt. He says he'd got the feeling I was new here. He talks<br />

about the ways in which it is hard to come to a new place <strong>and</strong> suggests<br />

ways <strong>of</strong> meeting new people, like early-morning prayer or<br />

stretch or song groups. He invites me to attend a community meeting.<br />

I say I will mention it to Gordon, but I won't.<br />

4.<br />

I had many expectations about how it would be to live here<br />

with Gordon. On Saturday mornings I thought we would find a<br />

sunny clearing <strong>and</strong> juggle.<br />

It is Saturday morning. Sleet is ricocheting <strong>of</strong>f the windows.<br />

Gordon is st<strong>and</strong>ing in the bathroom in front <strong>of</strong> the sink. I can see<br />

him through the frosted glass. "Gordon, can I come in?"<br />

"I'm getting a B<strong>and</strong>-Aid."<br />

I turn the doorknob to see if it is locked. It isn't.<br />

"Please be patient," says Gordon. He doesn't want me to come<br />

in. I open the door anyway. He is bent over <strong>and</strong> working<br />

furiously. He is cutting a big square B<strong>and</strong>-aid into small strips.<br />

I am not sure why I am nervous. He has stopped cutting <strong>and</strong><br />

stares at me st<strong>and</strong>ing there. "I thought you were going to the<br />

bathroom," I explain. "I thought it was taking a long time."<br />

"How come when I tell you I'm getting a B<strong>and</strong>-Aid <strong>and</strong> tell you<br />

don't come in, you come in <strong>and</strong> say you thought I was going to the<br />

bathroom?"<br />

I flounder. "It's not impossible to think that someone might do<br />

two things..."<br />

" You wanted to remind me that my shits last too long," Gordon<br />

proclaims.<br />

I start to laugh. "But... but you weren't... you weren't shitting!"<br />

"In general, I mean. That they last too long in general." He puts<br />

down the scissors. "When I'm really taking a shit <strong>and</strong> you want to<br />

tell me it's taking too long, you are already too upset to talk. So you<br />

tell me now instead. You think this way you'll win." He sticks on a<br />

B<strong>and</strong>-Aid so the cotton pad covers rest on the webby part in<br />

between his fingers. He keeps working. He is putting B<strong>and</strong>-Aids<br />

between all his fingers. A bad feeling starts in my ear <strong>and</strong> pulses<br />

warm <strong>and</strong> sickish pink under my face.<br />

"What's wrong with your fingers? Did you cut them?"<br />

"No."<br />

It is the skin problem. I know he hasn't cut himself, that we are<br />

out <strong>of</strong> bread, that there isn't even any food he could have cut. I<br />

should leave. I know that I am going to have to leave. I know that<br />

if I ask him questions <strong>and</strong> he answers I will want to wipe every word<br />

he says <strong>of</strong>f my face like dog spit. I put on my scarf. I think that if I<br />

walk through the sleet the cold will drive the disgust out. The ice<br />

will be falling hard, it will almost cut my lips <strong>and</strong> eyelids <strong>and</strong> will<br />

hurt, <strong>and</strong> I will hate Gordon for it, but the pain <strong>and</strong> the wind will<br />

give me a proud sacrificial feeling that I like. "I'll go to the store," I<br />

say.<br />

"Wait till the sleet stops. Have something else for breakfast ...


150<br />

have cottage cheese. Have potatoes. Or... I'll go," says Gordon.<br />

I don't want something else for breakfast. I don't want him to<br />

go to the store. There are a certain amount <strong>of</strong> favors, I think, <strong>and</strong> I<br />

don't want to use up one <strong>of</strong> them on the store. I look at the<br />

bathroom floor where hairs are damp <strong>and</strong> flattened. I want to make<br />

him never forget that I need him to be attractive. Attractiveness can<br />

mean so much. It could whisk me out <strong>of</strong> the bathroom <strong>and</strong> into a<br />

setting with air that didn't smell like medicines <strong>and</strong> lotions, with<br />

lights that didn't light up every crimson edge <strong>of</strong> every scab, the<br />

length <strong>and</strong> depth <strong>of</strong> every tiny rip in every membrane. I don't know<br />

how to tell Gordon this.<br />

"This is all my skin again? I'll try a different ointment. Are you<br />

crying?"<br />

I won't look at him. I don't want him to think I am putting on<br />

a show. I shake my head so that my hair sticks to the place where a<br />

tear has rolled down.<br />

"Why are you crying? If the new cream doesn't help I'll go back<br />

to the doctor."<br />

"I just feel like I'm wasting." I swallow. I need to swallow<br />

several times. "I should be... then I just... I am just st<strong>and</strong>ing in the<br />

bathroom <strong>and</strong>—I don't know why." I start crying harder.<br />

"What? You want to juggle?"<br />

"No it's dumb, your fingers are cut up ..."<br />

I hey aren t...<br />

"I mean they have a rash."<br />

"I'm sorry I have a rash," says Gordon.<br />

5.<br />

I am telling Gordon but he is insisting. I say, "Gels <strong>and</strong> powders<br />

can't mix." Of course the gel will moisten the powder <strong>and</strong> make<br />

it thick <strong>and</strong> sticky. This is it. He walks from the kitchen to bathroom<br />

with his legs too far apart. He looks like an action figure when<br />

a child holds the head <strong>and</strong> makes it walk. The mess is on his inner<br />

thighs, crumbs <strong>of</strong> it are on his penis. I drag the carpets away from<br />

where he has to walk. He turns on the shower.<br />

"Gordon," I say, loud through the steam, through the shower<br />

noise <strong>and</strong> the sudden smell <strong>of</strong> medicated soap. "Gordon..." But my<br />

eyes <strong>and</strong> my voice can't get to him, they don't want to get to him,<br />

through the shower curtain <strong>and</strong> the curtain liner <strong>and</strong> the water pelting<br />

on the metal, on the plastic, drenching the rug, dampening the<br />

toilet roll. I don't want to reach behind the curtain <strong>and</strong> feel the<br />

springy wet hair beneath my fingers <strong>and</strong> know that beneath the hair<br />

is skin that may or may not be safe to touch. Skin that may give way<br />

beneath my fingers or make him scream or make me sick. I leave the<br />

bathroom. I leave the apartment. I walk to St. Jacobi. I haven't been<br />

to church since I was five. It is not even Sunday. The stairs are dark<br />

<strong>and</strong> moan under my weight. At the top there is a hallway full <strong>of</strong><br />

administrative <strong>of</strong>fices. A man looks up from a desk in a small room.<br />

I walk toward him fast.<br />

He straightens his papers. For now, I am looking only at his<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s. They are hairy. The lamplight makes them yellow. He<br />

pushes up his sleeves to show me more <strong>of</strong> his hair.<br />

"Well," he says. Click click. He taps some papers against the<br />

desk.<br />

I take <strong>of</strong>f my jacket. It is covered with rain.<br />

"What brings you out on this miserable day?"<br />

My breath is confused with my words like a kettle spout, half<br />

air, halftone. "I don't know."<br />

I am st<strong>and</strong>ing just inside the doorway my body feels damp <strong>and</strong><br />

eerie, only half lit by the small desk lamp. Pastor Knees is st<strong>and</strong>ing<br />

now. I force my breath to be normal. I cage it behind my teeth <strong>and</strong><br />

let it through only in tight hisses. "Ask me a harder question," I tell<br />

him.<br />

I pry the back <strong>of</strong> my shoe with my other foot but it will not slip<br />

<strong>of</strong>f. I squat. They are double knots. My feet are so wet my socks feel<br />

alive. "A harder question," I repeat.<br />

He sits again, thinking. "Okay," he says, "What are you doing<br />

with those shoes?"<br />

The question is not a good one. "My shoes? No, it was my... my...<br />

I am taking them <strong>of</strong>f." He leaves his desk to go to the cabinet on the<br />

back wall. My shirt is wet. "My shoes," I repeat. He doesn't turn. I<br />

take <strong>of</strong>f my shirt <strong>and</strong> drop it on my shoes. I am not sure which<br />

expression is on my face. I want him to shine a flashlight in my eyes.<br />

151


152<br />

Pastor Knees turns <strong>and</strong> begins to cough. He holds a mug in<br />

each h<strong>and</strong>. We are going to have tea. He pours.<br />

I move to the corner where there are books <strong>and</strong> brace my foot<br />

against one <strong>of</strong> the lower shelves. The wetness makes my pant legs<br />

want to stick around my thighs, so I have to yank to get them <strong>of</strong>f.<br />

My underpants roll <strong>of</strong>f easily though. I step out in two dainty steps<br />

<strong>and</strong> hang them over the back <strong>of</strong> a chair. Since I am naked, something<br />

relaxes in me; my jaw loosens <strong>and</strong> my teeth begin to chatter,<br />

not the usual trill-like chatter, but slowly as if I were banging them<br />

together on purpose. I walk carefully; the chattering making my<br />

knees <strong>and</strong> elbows jut out convulsively, as if I'd swallowed a chainsaw.<br />

Against the side wall is the arts <strong>and</strong> crafts table, which is really<br />

a picnic table. I sit on the bench. It is cold. Pastor Knees hovers near<br />

the desk in the lamplight, both h<strong>and</strong>s around his tea mug, holding<br />

it to his face <strong>and</strong> keeping it there so that the steam is drawn up into<br />

his nostrils. When I look at him he lowers the mug <strong>and</strong> frowns. He<br />

frowns like a puppet, his mouth region separate from the rest <strong>of</strong> his<br />

face. He is tall <strong>and</strong> his face seems far away. As the light reflects <strong>of</strong>f<br />

his glasses, I think that he looks like a lighthouse.<br />

I rub my h<strong>and</strong> in slow circles on my stomach <strong>and</strong> the motion<br />

fills my head with a s<strong>of</strong>t drowse.<br />

Pastor Knees has put down his tea <strong>and</strong> I feel the sudden whoosh<br />

as he whisks the cloth from table <strong>and</strong> drapes it over my shoulder. He<br />

guides my h<strong>and</strong> so I can clutch it against my chest <strong>and</strong> hold it<br />

closed. As I lean back <strong>and</strong> put my head against the bench, I feel his<br />

fingers against my free h<strong>and</strong>, which is still moving around <strong>and</strong><br />

around my stomach. He keeps his fingers there, riding on top <strong>of</strong><br />

mine like baby opossums as I steer.<br />

Suddenly my teeth have stopped chattering. His mouth grabs<br />

my mouth <strong>and</strong> his beard <strong>and</strong> mustache <strong>and</strong> hair rub over my face<br />

<strong>and</strong> neck, rough <strong>and</strong> tangly, like the outside <strong>of</strong> a coconut when you<br />

turn it round <strong>and</strong> round before tapping for the milk.<br />

6.<br />

I think <strong>of</strong> what Gordon will say when, after a long guessing<br />

game, I tell him, Yes, that's right, it was Pastor Knees. He will be<br />

furious that his years <strong>of</strong> devotion didn't heal me. That I am still as<br />

dependent as ever on large-scale-catastrophic attention-getting<br />

schemes.<br />

I am thinking about the last moments. I know I won't come<br />

back. I would not ruin the emphasis <strong>of</strong> my leaving with something<br />

so unspectacular as my return. I think <strong>of</strong> tasting the last beautiful<br />

words that Gordon speaks. They will be warm <strong>and</strong> sweet <strong>and</strong><br />

unsophisticated. They wilJ remind me <strong>of</strong> food <strong>of</strong>fa children's menu.<br />

I am having these thoughts because Gordon just sang the Frosty the<br />

Snowman song. He sang it with our special lyrics: <strong>and</strong> two eyes<br />

made out <strong>of</strong> mold. A perfect end. It will get worse from here. If he<br />

knew how touching his Frosty the Snowman lyrics are about to<br />

become, he would regret ever having changed the words, ever<br />

having sung them at all.<br />

I wonder if I will write him a letter that says, "Dear Gordon,<br />

this letter is hard for me to write," if it should start this way so that<br />

he will know it is true <strong>and</strong> not just an angry threat. I wonder if in<br />

it I should tell Gordon one last time all the things that I always tell<br />

him: that I hate looking at him against countertops eating out <strong>of</strong><br />

cook pots with a spatula, dropping food onto his clothes, eating the<br />

crumbs <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> his clothes, dropping cheese onto the sticky part <strong>of</strong><br />

the floor, washing the dirty cheese, eating it. That the smell <strong>of</strong> ointment<br />

gives me a warm sick tingle in my nose. I wonder if I should<br />

tell him again, so he will always have it, that this is too much for<br />

me. That I hate it.<br />

Gordon calls from the kitchen. He says there is a surprise. He<br />

brings in two grapefruits cut into sections, one for him <strong>and</strong> one for<br />

me, his with a lot <strong>of</strong> sugar sprinkled on top, mine with a little. We<br />

sit down in front <strong>of</strong> the TV <strong>and</strong> when I start eating I notice that<br />

although Gordon has cut little spokes between the grapefruit<br />

sections, he hasn't carved the ring. The pieces are not coming loose.<br />

I set it down on the c<strong>of</strong>fee table forcefully so the spoon<br />

clatters. By the time Gordon asks what's wrong I am already in the<br />

kitchen opening drawers. In a moment I am back in the living<br />

room. "What?" says Gordon. I have brought the biggest knife we<br />

have. "What's wrong?" he asks. I bend over the table. I carve a<br />

circle in my grapefruit. The knife does not slip, I do not cut my<br />

153


154<br />

h<strong>and</strong>. The juice does not spritz up <strong>and</strong> sting my eye. I go around<br />

twice to cut every pale str<strong>and</strong>. When I lift a piece it comes out<br />

easily, a perfect triangle. I eat it <strong>and</strong> it tastes perfect. Gordon has<br />

stopped trying to eat his half. He is looking blankly at the television<br />

picking at one <strong>of</strong> his B<strong>and</strong>-Aids. "Give yours to me, " I say <strong>and</strong><br />

without even looking he pushes it toward me. "I'll fix it. I'll show<br />

you how to fix it," I say <strong>and</strong> pick up the knife. It will be my<br />

triumph.<br />

-ELIZABETH MCCRACKEN<br />

Rules <strong>of</strong> Knockabout Comedians<br />

Welcome<br />

Even if you haven't been here before, you've been here before.<br />

Here's your car; the doors drop <strong>of</strong>f when slammed. Here's your<br />

suit; it doesn't fit. Here's your friend. He likes to hit you.<br />

Be careful where you lean, where you sit, who you let take hold<br />

<strong>of</strong> your lapels.<br />

Geysers lurk everywhere: drinking-fountains, oysters, sinks,<br />

dresser drawers, telephone receivers, soda fountains, grapefruit,<br />

volumes <strong>of</strong> the encyclopedia, lakes. Innocently investigate any place<br />

inclined to moisture—<strong>and</strong> many places not—<strong>and</strong> you'll receive a<br />

kisser full <strong>of</strong> water. For you, the world is as fountainous as Rome.<br />

Keep your mouth open.


156<br />

Doubletakes<br />

Every single thing on God's green earth is an unlikely surprise.<br />

A cow in a field, a mobster with a gun, a slamming door, a ghost<br />

moving a c<strong>and</strong>lestick across a darkened room, a tough guy (armed<br />

or unarmed), a mother-in-law, a wife, a disembodied voice (aforementioned<br />

ghost, turned-on radio, record, educated parrot), your<br />

partner when least expected, anything that knocks your hat <strong>of</strong>f.<br />

Don't notice. Then notice.<br />

Your Hat<br />

See above. Your hat is attached to your head by springs. Anything<br />

can cause it to pop <strong>of</strong>f. Also: your hat is your most prized possession.<br />

Wherever it goes, find it, put it back on, whether bowler,<br />

boater, fedora, fez, busby, bearskin, helmet, hard hat, sou'wester,<br />

coonskin, beret, tam-o'-shanter, deerstalker, homburg, trilby,<br />

porkpie, snap-brim, beaver, derby, stetson, ten-gallon, sombrero,<br />

panama, stovepipe, tricorne, mortarboard.<br />

Note: you will, in your career, wear all <strong>of</strong> the above.<br />

157


I58<br />

Women<br />

Dignified women will soon be ruined. (Pies, geysers <strong>of</strong> water,<br />

anything.)<br />

Fat women love you. They are never spies. If one's navel is the<br />

spot God stuck a finger in you to see if you were done, He can't keep<br />

His h<strong>and</strong>s <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> fat women: dimples on either side <strong>of</strong> each elbow,<br />

on either side <strong>of</strong> each knee, on either side <strong>of</strong> the mouth, above the<br />

mouth in that dazzling dimple between upper lip <strong>and</strong> nose—always<br />

especially freshbaked <strong>and</strong> fragrant on a fat women, like that's where<br />

God scooped up the icing to take a taste. All fat women in movies<br />

are—look at them carefully—pretty, nearly cartoons <strong>of</strong> pretty<br />

women. Heads like Betty Boop's, <strong>and</strong> bodies proportionate to Betty<br />

Boop's head.<br />

Beautiful women will feign love. They will never touch your<br />

body, though they love your clothes, your lapel, may pinch your<br />

necktie between two fingers <strong>and</strong> pull it from your jacket, stroke the<br />

tie between two fingers, hold onto just the tip <strong>and</strong> with the other<br />

h<strong>and</strong> walk two fingers up the tautened plank <strong>of</strong> your tie till almost<br />

your neck.<br />

For this reason, you always wear a tie.<br />

Beautiful women who seem to love you may actually hate you,<br />

because they are spies <strong>and</strong> trying to get you to spill secrets, although<br />

you don't have any.<br />

There are no homely women.<br />

Policemen<br />

They are not your friends.<br />

159


162<br />

PAGE 16 1:<br />

Bill Jacobson, Interim Portrait #373 (1992), Silver gelatin print<br />

OPPOSITE PAGE:<br />

Kara Walker, Burn (1998), Cut paper <strong>and</strong> adhesive on wall<br />

PAGE I 64:<br />

Kara Walker, Camptown Ladies (1998), Cut paper <strong>and</strong> adhesive on wall<br />

PAGE 165:<br />

Kara Walker, Consume (1998), Cut paper <strong>and</strong> adhesive on wall


164


* Subject to extra chargps<br />

John Hallock, William S. Burroughs—-Junky: A Self-Image Briefcase (2000),<br />

Ink on paper


i68<br />

OPPOSITE PAGE:<br />

Tom Sachs, Prada Valuemeal (1998), Cardboard paper, ink, thermal adhesive


m<br />

O<br />

u<br />

I COURTESY<br />

w<br />

n<br />

a 1<br />

^5<br />

o<br />

IO<br />

SL<br />

OF JACK TILTON GALLERY<br />

COURTESY OF JACK TILTON GALLERY


Y OF HENRY URBACH ARCHITECTURE<br />

COURTESY OF HENRY URBACH ARCHITECTURE


174<br />

•V<br />

Nayl<strong>and</strong> Blake, Startin Over Suit (2000), Cloth <strong>and</strong> 140 pounds <strong>of</strong> beans<br />

Nayl<strong>and</strong> Blake, Gorge (1998), 60 min videotape (color, stereo)


Stephen Barker, Taste <strong>of</strong> Beefcake (2000), Black <strong>and</strong> white print<br />

Stephen Barker, Weekend with Stranger (2000), Black <strong>and</strong> white t


178<br />

Sarah Lucas, 1978 (2000), Black <strong>and</strong> white print<br />

Sarah Lucas, Is Suicide Genetic? (1996), Ceramic toilet, plastic<br />

toilet seat, acrylic paint


6-<br />

a-.<br />

I<br />

o<br />

O<br />

o<br />

a<br />

o<br />

a<br />

r<br />

COURTESY OF 3O3 GALLERY<br />

COURTESY OF 3O3 GALLERY


182<br />

Nan Goldin, Isola d'Elba, Italy (2000), Cibachrome print Jack Pierson, Cocaine (2000), Colored plastic, painted metal, glass & painted styn


184<br />

OPPOSITE PAGE, DETAIL:<br />

David Bunn, Body Snatching (2000), Acrylic, pencil, <strong>and</strong> pen <strong>and</strong><br />

ink on paper, Philadelphia College <strong>of</strong> Physicians library catalog card<br />

PAGE I 86, DETAIL:<br />

David Bunn, Body-Snatching, "Invasion <strong>of</strong> the body snatchers"<br />

(2000), Typewriter on paper<br />

PAGE 187, DETAIL:<br />

David Bunn, Body-Snatching, "Invasion <strong>of</strong> the body snatchers"<br />

(2000), Discarded Los Angeles library catalog cards<br />

PAGE I 88, DETAIL:<br />

David Bunn, Destroyed (2000), Acrylic, pencil, <strong>and</strong> pen <strong>and</strong> ink<br />

on paper, Mutter Museum catalog card<br />

PAGE I 89, DETAIL:<br />

David Bunn, Destroyed, "The Thing" (2000), Typewriter on paper


INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHCRS<br />

INVASION OF THE COMET PEOPLE<br />

THE INVASION OF THE CRIMEA*<br />

L The invasion <strong>of</strong> the Crimea.<br />

[947.07 Kinglake, A, Y».<br />

'K54<br />

3<br />

Invasion <strong>of</strong> the comet people.<br />

Curtis, Philip.<br />

Invasion <strong>of</strong> the comet people / by<br />

Philip Curtis : text illustrations by<br />

Tony Ross. — 1st U.S. ed. — New<br />

: Knopf. 1983.<br />

122 p. : ill. ; 20 cm. — (Capers)<br />

I Invasion <strong>of</strong> the body snatchers.<br />

) 809.281<br />

R536<br />

6<br />

Richter, W D


188<br />

THE THIHQ<br />

THE THINO<br />

THE THlNO<br />

THINQ, A MODERN 8IA«0H r


190<br />

Shirin Neshat, Grace Under Duty (1994), RC print & ink<br />

(photo taken by Robert Wesler)<br />

1<br />

Shirin Neshat, Stories <strong>of</strong> Martyrdom (1994), RC print &<br />

(photo taken by Cynthia Pres


192<br />

Bill Jacobson, Interim Couple #1173 (1994), Silver gelatin print


194<br />

—R. FLOWERS RIVERA<br />

Exegesis: A World Gone Awry<br />

I.<br />

/ word old wounds<br />

—Marilyn Hacker, "The Regent Park Sonnets"<br />

The abridged text <strong>of</strong> my life is a dull read.<br />

Kumquats, not oranges; muscadines, not grapes<br />

—I covet what I cannot afford. Shaped<br />

by an eccentric l<strong>and</strong>, I am strange seed<br />

bound to that L<strong>and</strong> like the Earth to the Sun.<br />

Long ago, I gave up the ghost, resigned<br />

myself to Gravity <strong>and</strong> all her kind.<br />

Brave-faced Southern girls do not come undone.<br />

So when you inquired on which side my bread<br />

was buttered, I did not blink but said both.<br />

You pressed your lips upon my brow in dread<br />

the same way in which the sick swallow chipped ice<br />

—after grippe has lain siege to their throats.<br />

You managed to hove, " I love you." I said, "That's nice."<br />

II.<br />

Neither long distances nor your live-in<br />

deterred you from burning up buried wires<br />

across seven states with cardinal fire<br />

<strong>and</strong> your old busted-up, beat-down love. Sin<br />

pinioned you to my sleeve, an epaulet<br />

in sad disrepair. You chose the lesser<br />

<strong>of</strong> my passions as your poison. And the sheer<br />

mention <strong>of</strong> my effeminate Latin pet<br />

made you writhe, all sangfroid aside, because<br />

you knew, like I was to know, that he would<br />

be the recipient <strong>of</strong> that season's<br />

mercy fuck. But why not speak the reason<br />

<strong>of</strong> which we were both aware, the real cause<br />

<strong>of</strong> the madness, the Muse who consumed my world.


196<br />

III.<br />

I have pruned myself free <strong>of</strong> delusions,<br />

finally coming to terms with the truth<br />

about that buxom Pole who choked both pith<br />

<strong>and</strong> flower, one woman fodder for tons<br />

<strong>of</strong> psychotherapy <strong>and</strong> ills. She left<br />

me, ass out, just the way I left you.<br />

You made a dire mistake. I made one, too.<br />

Only a gull would opt for beauty in lieu <strong>of</strong> other gifts.<br />

I began to fear looking at women<br />

like I fear looking at cute size 5 shoes.<br />

That girl, that shoe, doesn't seem so cute when<br />

the long buck has been paid, straps are askew,<br />

<strong>and</strong> what was thought to be the genuine<br />

article looks fake <strong>and</strong> feels asinine.<br />

IV.<br />

The end came in the manner feared.<br />

You <strong>and</strong> I sat, two lovers poised on opposite<br />

Sides <strong>of</strong> a wrought-iron table, smote<br />

with our neat bundles <strong>of</strong> facts that left us in the red.<br />

We sat, two dark coordinates, fixed points<br />

upon an axis. I played the woman<br />

accused, focused in the cross-hair site, <strong>and</strong><br />

You played the man. Stuffed down the front <strong>of</strong> your pants,<br />

the steel barrel flat against your hairless<br />

belly like some tortured intelligence.<br />

You alluded to that woman, took aim<br />

with the gun I gave you. The blood loss<br />

was nothing compared to the scar. Inflicting pain,<br />

though the weapon is love, is still violence.


198<br />

—TIMOTHY LIU<br />

Ars Poetica<br />

Even then those fissures could be seen.<br />

Once a gr<strong>and</strong> hotel in another age.<br />

Yes it was, wasn't it, he said.<br />

All the world day-trading suicide shares.<br />

Sinking through the valves <strong>of</strong> sleep.<br />

Crowned by spurts <strong>of</strong> milky jet.<br />

The craft could be taught but not the art.<br />

Riding the Bull<br />

Ready now to saddle up <strong>and</strong> ride out <strong>of</strong> those fiefdoms<br />

you did not choose—unmet need assuming an attitude<br />

<strong>of</strong> prayer. The romance going nowhere fast. Birdsong<br />

caught in a net <strong>of</strong> cell-phone panic as the stock portfolio<br />

dives. Prozaced to the nines <strong>and</strong> miles short <strong>of</strong> the next<br />

free flight hi-jacked by an adult child who spurns those<br />

kisses pulsing hot through a windshield kissed by stars.


200<br />

-JOHN DUFRESNE<br />

from Deep in the Shade <strong>of</strong> Paradise<br />

Chapter One: The Woman Shall Answer: I Will<br />

"In the Bible, sexual intercourse is called knowing, <strong>and</strong> it's not<br />

called that by accident. "<br />

-Alvin Lee Loudermilk<br />

This is the story <strong>of</strong> a wedding, a wedding that's also a reunion<br />

<strong>and</strong> a farewell, that's also—well, we'll get to all <strong>of</strong> that in time. First<br />

<strong>of</strong>f though, you should meet the espoused: Grisham <strong>and</strong> Ariane.<br />

Grisham Loudermilk, groom-to-be, who was twenty-six, <strong>and</strong><br />

who had recently passed the Louisiana Bar Exam, <strong>and</strong> who would<br />

begin working for the firm <strong>of</strong> Davis, Orum, Swearingen, Verl<strong>and</strong>er,<br />

Loomis, <strong>and</strong> Street in Lafayette when the honeymoon (a week in<br />

Gatlinburg, Lord Help Us!) was over, was sitting at a table in a<br />

saloon called Gator's with a young woman he'd seen there before but<br />

had only just met. The single-carat wedding ring he'd picked up at<br />

Zale's was in its snappy suede box in the inside breast pocket <strong>of</strong> his<br />

suit jacket. The jacket was slung over the back <strong>of</strong> his chair. His tie<br />

was loose, his collar unbuttoned, his bottom lip was glistening as it<br />

does when he is being glib <strong>and</strong> charming.<br />

Grisham was leaving for Shiver-de-Freeze in the morning. He'd<br />

be driving up with his best man, Duane Prisock. Grisham was<br />

telling this young woman, Mir<strong>and</strong>a Ferry, a joke about a Jew, a<br />

WASP, <strong>and</strong> a Cajun. After this drink he would suggest they retire to<br />

some more intimate spot, <strong>and</strong> she'd agree. Women adored Grisham<br />

T<br />

Loudermilk, were disarmed by his cornflower blue eyes, his dimples,<br />

his arresting smile. They sensed that he appreciated women,<br />

defined himself in terms <strong>of</strong> them. Grisham himself found this<br />

amusing, this perception that he was better than he was, more<br />

sensitive, underst<strong>and</strong>ing, <strong>and</strong> considerate.<br />

Grisham reached to Mir<strong>and</strong>a's face, touched a str<strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> her<br />

coppery hair, <strong>and</strong> tucked it behind her ear. She blushed, smiled,<br />

shifted in her chair. She wanted to close her eyes. She took his h<strong>and</strong>,<br />

turned it over, ran her fingernail along his love line. She looked at<br />

Grisham, then back at the two children she saw there in his palm.<br />

Ariane Thevenot, bride-to-be, was packing for the wedding, for<br />

the honeymoon, for her move to the new split-level across town.<br />

Would her clothes even fit in those tiny closets? She called Grisham<br />

one more time. Her entire life was changing, <strong>and</strong> her fiance would<br />

not answer his goddamn telephone. She was breaking out in hives.<br />

Wouldn't that be nice! And her mother was no help at all. She was<br />

downstairs in the parlor entertaining Father Pat McDermott (<strong>of</strong> the<br />

hot sauce McDermotts), fawning all over him like she did. Ariane<br />

could never figure that. For one thing, he was so fat it took two<br />

people to see him. He was down there now, flexing his table<br />

muscle, cupping a snifter <strong>of</strong> cognac in one h<strong>and</strong>, holding a cigar in<br />

the other, conducting the Acadian Pops Orchestra on the stereo like<br />

he was the High <strong>and</strong> the Mighty. She thought, All those McDermotts<br />

think they're something on a stick. What would she do if<br />

Grisham swelled up like Father Pat one day? She got this all-toovivid<br />

picture <strong>of</strong> herself on top <strong>of</strong> an engorged <strong>and</strong> naked Grisham,<br />

<strong>and</strong> all she could think <strong>of</strong> was a dung beetle rolling home its booty.<br />

What had gotten into her? Ariane scolded herself for her sacrilegious<br />

thoughts about the Right Reverend. If she could only get rid<br />

<strong>of</strong> this headache. But Father Pat was so patronizing <strong>and</strong> so always<br />

there at her house—still she had to be pleasant, at least through the<br />

wedding. He was going to perform the ceremony, after all. Felt like<br />

someone heated an icepick in oil, stabbed the point into that little<br />

indentation in the socket bone between her eyelid <strong>and</strong> eyebrow, <strong>and</strong><br />

then plunged the shank into her brain.<br />

Ariane looked at her bed <strong>and</strong> saw herself at seven years old,


202<br />

snuggled under the covers with her doll Annie, right after her daddy<br />

dropped dead at Rivard's Seafood restaurant—got this demented<br />

smile on his face, grabbed hold <strong>of</strong> the tablecloth, yanked it down<br />

with him when he fell, covering himself with crawfish shells. At first<br />

Ariane thought he was joking like he did, <strong>and</strong> she jumped on his<br />

belly, called him a silly bobo. Ariane saw her young self fingering a<br />

tuft <strong>of</strong> chenille on the bedspread, closing her eyes so tight the black<br />

turned green, <strong>and</strong> willing her daddy back to life. If she could just<br />

pray hard enough, if she were good enough, pretty enough, sweet<br />

enough, why then her daddy would be back home when she woke<br />

up, back sitting at the kitchen table, eating his <strong>and</strong>ouille <strong>and</strong> eggs,<br />

sipping his chicory c<strong>of</strong>fee, reading from the Daily Racing Form<br />

with his lucky pencil, the one she'd bought for him at the Immaculate<br />

Heart <strong>of</strong> Mary Church Bazaar. He'd tweak her nose, say, Ariane,<br />

honey, here's a little filly named Daddy's Best Gal that I'm going to<br />

bet just for you. He'd kiss Ariane on the forehead. Yes. But he never<br />

was <strong>and</strong> never did. Ariane heard the stereo fade downstairs, the<br />

telephone chirp. Maybe it was Grisham.<br />

Mir<strong>and</strong>a lived in a silver Airstream trailer at the Pinedale<br />

Mobile Home Court. Looks like a lunchbox, Grisham thought.<br />

Mir<strong>and</strong>a lifted a corner <strong>of</strong> her coco doormat <strong>and</strong> picked up her<br />

house key. She told Grisham how she'd driven her home here from<br />

Orange, Texas, where she was from. Uncle Phil <strong>and</strong> Aunt Loretta<br />

gave her the trailer—a 1963 Trade Wind model.<br />

Grisham had never been in a trailer before. "Wait'll he told<br />

Duane about this. Grisham Loudermilk, Esquire, fooling with a<br />

trailer tramp. Mir<strong>and</strong>a left him sitting at the fold-down kitchen<br />

table while she freshened up in the lav. Grisham heard the water<br />

running, the squirt <strong>and</strong> crackle <strong>of</strong> soap in Mir<strong>and</strong>a's h<strong>and</strong>s. He<br />

could hear someone, somewhere in the park, practicing scales on a<br />

cornet. He'd never seen a kitchen quite like this one. If you could<br />

call this little space a kitchen. Someone, probably Phil <strong>and</strong> Loretta,<br />

had glued travel stickers all over the cabinet doors. On one <strong>of</strong> them<br />

a cowboy rode a bridled jackrabbit. A drive-thru redwood tree; a<br />

stegosaurus in Port Orford, Oregon; a face on a barroom floor in<br />

Central City, Colorado, altitude 8500 feet. And this: You Don't<br />

7<br />

Know Beans Until You Come to Boston, Mass. There was a china<br />

dinner plate with Dwight <strong>and</strong> Mamie Eisenhower's picture on it<br />

hanging over the stove. Mir<strong>and</strong>as salt <strong>and</strong> pepper shakers were<br />

Rhett Butler (salt) <strong>and</strong> Scarlet O'Hara (pepper). She yelled to<br />

Grisham that there was beer in the icebox. He got up. Who calls a<br />

fridge an icebox anymore? Grisham took a can <strong>of</strong> Pearl out <strong>of</strong> the<br />

little fridge. He popped the tab <strong>and</strong> drank. He read the magnetic<br />

poem on the refrigerator door:<br />

rusted whispers <strong>of</strong> peach<br />

the underfluff <strong>of</strong> our<br />

elaborate apparatus<br />

sleep<br />

the boil <strong>of</strong> after<br />

the crush <strong>of</strong> water when<br />

the raw moon heaves<br />

He shook his head. Underfluff? Exhibit A, Your Honor. The<br />

literary evidence will show that the defendant is incapable <strong>of</strong> underst<strong>and</strong>ing<br />

the nature <strong>of</strong> the charges being brought against her. He read a<br />

newspaper article taped to the door. A woman told police she still<br />

loved her boyfriend, Lonnie Bouvier, even though he shot her five<br />

times for not picking up dog food at the grocery.<br />

When the rain began, Grisham had to ask Mir<strong>and</strong>a to speak up.<br />

She just smiled, kissed his shoulder, climbed over him <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong>f the<br />

bed. Grisham wondered about someone who would choose to live<br />

like this, no television, no pets, alone, without a porch or a yard or<br />

an attic or a foundation. To live in a house with wheels. And how<br />

could you sleep with this noise, or think even? And then the<br />

fragrance <strong>of</strong> the sheets got his attention. Smelled like damp dirt,<br />

clay. He gathered Mir<strong>and</strong>a's pillow to his face, inhaled the fizz <strong>and</strong><br />

chalk <strong>of</strong> her—like tilled soil, hummus. He remembered his<br />

mother's housekeeper, Florence, at the sink eating laundry starch.<br />

Grisham looked at Mir<strong>and</strong>a, the light from the open refrigerator<br />

splashing on her naked body. She waved to him, asked if he was<br />

hungry. What? Do you want something to eat? she yelled, <strong>and</strong> she


204<br />

mimed eating with a spoon. And just then the rain s<strong>of</strong>tened, the<br />

windows went blue with lightning. What are you making? She told<br />

him, Soup on the rocks. He said he'd have a beer. Grisham located<br />

his underwear <strong>and</strong> trousers <strong>and</strong> put them on, put his shirt on. He<br />

joined Mir<strong>and</strong>a.<br />

She opened a can <strong>of</strong> beef broth <strong>and</strong> poured it into a glass <strong>of</strong> ice<br />

cubes. She tapped in a drop <strong>of</strong> lemon juice concentrate. She raised<br />

her glass to Grisham. Cheers!<br />

"Do you always eat like this?"<br />

"I usually get dressed."<br />

"I mean ... What else do you eat?"<br />

"French fries <strong>and</strong> ice cream. Cottage cheese <strong>and</strong> applesauce.<br />

Fruit Loops <strong>and</strong> Hi-C."<br />

Grisham couldn't tell if she was serious.<br />

Mir<strong>and</strong>a wiped broth from her chin with her fingers. She<br />

looked at Grisham. She said, "Good fish gets dull, but sex is always<br />

fun."<br />

"Excuse me."<br />

"Something an Amazon tribesman said in this documentary I<br />

saw in anthropology class."<br />

"You want to be an anthropologist?"<br />

"That would be nice."<br />

"What do you do?"<br />

"Work on a poultry farm over near Carencro." Mir<strong>and</strong>a told<br />

Grisham she sexed chicks, graded them, debeaked <strong>and</strong> vaccinated<br />

them. She caught them, too, fed them, castrated the cockerels. A little<br />

bit <strong>of</strong> everything.<br />

Grisham tried to picture testicles on a little bird.<br />

"You got to open them up a bit. Get in there with a heated<br />

knife <strong>and</strong> forceps."<br />

He watched Mir<strong>and</strong>a drink her soup <strong>and</strong> thought how odd this<br />

was. Here he was in a cramped kitchen with a naked woman in a<br />

house that moves, <strong>and</strong> the woman was smiling at him, <strong>and</strong> he<br />

wondered what someone watching this scene would make <strong>of</strong> it all,<br />

would think <strong>of</strong> him, <strong>and</strong> it was all so strange that he was certain this<br />

had happened before, <strong>and</strong> if he turned <strong>and</strong> looked over his left<br />

shoulder he'd see a glass vase filled with fondue forks. And he did,<br />

7<br />

<strong>and</strong> there was. A stainless steel bouquet. And he knew tliat Mir<strong>and</strong>a<br />

was about to speak, <strong>and</strong> he recognized each one <strong>of</strong> her words in the<br />

moment before it was pronounced.<br />

"I want to live in the desert someday," she said.<br />

It was like he was reading his lines. "Why do you want to live<br />

in the desert?"<br />

"To live in the desert."<br />

Grisham was trying to figure it out. Usually this sensation<br />

lasted only a few seconds. He didn't know Mir<strong>and</strong>a. Things don't<br />

happen twice.<br />

She said, "Are you okay?"<br />

Suddenly Grisham was certain that he was dreaming all this,<br />

that he was still in Mir<strong>and</strong>a's bed, <strong>and</strong> this revelation unburdened<br />

him. Mir<strong>and</strong>a was telling him something about how living in a<br />

mobile home kept you focused on the future because you had no<br />

space to store your past. He smiled. He couldn't help it. She was so<br />

cute. He looked at the tops <strong>of</strong> her cars, at her shoulders, at the<br />

hollow <strong>of</strong> her throat. He let himself imagine what life might be like<br />

with Mir<strong>and</strong>a. Unpredictable certainly. Portable. Spontaneous. He<br />

saw the two <strong>of</strong> them sitting in the cab <strong>of</strong> a pickup, hauling the<br />

Airstream down some empty interstate. Roy Orbison on the radio<br />

maybe. And whenever they felt frisky, they would pull <strong>of</strong>f the exit,<br />

find a campground, <strong>and</strong> hop in the sack. But what if an axle<br />

snapped in West Texas? What then? Grisham didn't want to live in<br />

the desert. What's the point <strong>of</strong> living somewhere else? It was nearly<br />

ten, <strong>and</strong> Grisham wondered why he was still there, why he hadn't<br />

called Ariane. She'd be worried. He looked at the telephone on the<br />

c<strong>of</strong>fee table. She'd be livid. He looked at his suit jacket on the back<br />

<strong>of</strong> the chair.<br />

Mir<strong>and</strong>a said, You can leave, you know. I don't expect anything.<br />

She hoped someday she'd have a lover who'd behave as elegantly<br />

when he left as at any other time, who wouldn't twitch, check his<br />

watch, fall silent, who would tell her again what he had whispered<br />

to her earlier. She could love a man who took his leave with grace<br />

<strong>and</strong> good will.<br />

Yesterday had been Ariane's last day at Lamy Lumber Brokers


206<br />

after five years at the same desk, <strong>and</strong> her friends Dierdre, Maryellen,<br />

<strong>and</strong> Lulu took her out for bourbon sours <strong>and</strong> buffalo wings at Bannisters,<br />

gave her a stuffed white autographed dachshund that everyone<br />

in the <strong>of</strong>fice had signed, even people she didn't really know, like<br />

the guys in shipping, <strong>and</strong> even Mr. Warren Lamy himself. Lulu<br />

wrote: Aloha!from Horneylulu (because I like to get leied, ha ha!). She<br />

told Ariane she wrote the inscription after everyone else had done<br />

theirs so that Chuck Drinkwater, the perv in sales, wouldn't get his<br />

nasty hopes up. I draw the line at married men, Lulu said. That<br />

means Grisham's safe. And they all laughed.<br />

In her room, Ariane folded a silk camisole <strong>and</strong> arranged it in<br />

her overnight bag. She hated that she wouldn't be at work anymore,<br />

wouldn't get to gab with Mrs. Broussard about recipes, wouldn't<br />

gossip on break with Ramona <strong>and</strong> Grace, wouldn't find out how the<br />

romance between Ed Hall <strong>and</strong> Lourdes Perez turned out. This was<br />

the creepiest thing about life—you got to know people <strong>and</strong> then<br />

they were gone. You went to the same schools with your friends for<br />

twelve years. You came to rely on certain rhythms, on ritual conversations.<br />

You knew where you stood. You had nothing to prove.<br />

And then they told you it was over, <strong>and</strong> snap! the world changed.<br />

Who were you now?<br />

Yesterday she hadn't let anyone see, but she did, she cried at her<br />

desk, at the water cooler, in the file room. She gave her Far Side<br />

calendar to Maryellen. Maryellen said, Cheer up, girl, we'll still be<br />

buds—this is only our job. But, <strong>of</strong> course, it was more than a job;<br />

it was a world, <strong>and</strong> Ariane was no longer a part <strong>of</strong> it. And she was<br />

forgetting already, forgetting the br<strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> copier they used, the<br />

color <strong>of</strong> the storage cabinets.<br />

Ariane wished she were one <strong>of</strong> the adventurous people who<br />

found exhilaration in change, who embraced the new, cultivated the<br />

unexpected, accumulated friends. As soon as Ariane got close to<br />

anyone, she began to wonder how the friendship would end. She<br />

pictured herself saying goodbye on the telephone or at the airport<br />

or in a funeral parlor. Was this why she was getting married? For<br />

something permanent? Or the illusion <strong>of</strong> something permanent?<br />

Ariane looked at the photo she had tucked into the frame <strong>of</strong> the<br />

vanity mirror. She <strong>and</strong> Grisham on the deck <strong>of</strong> the Delta Princess.<br />

Grisham looked like a little boy—bangs in his eyes, a droopy smile,<br />

like he was saying he was in your h<strong>and</strong>s now <strong>and</strong> he hoped you<br />

woudn't hurt him. Ariane loved Grisham. Of course, she had also<br />

loved other boys. J. C. Ludy in junior high. He gave her up for baseball.<br />

It was nearly ten <strong>and</strong> Grisham still hadn't called. She was tired.<br />

She lay on the bed, closed her eyes, listened to the peal <strong>of</strong> thunder.<br />

J. C. had owned a bait shop by the Vermilion River until about a<br />

month ago. He bought all his worms, crickets, <strong>and</strong> minnows with<br />

a Mastercard. The interest was more than his markup. So now he<br />

wanted to be a television fisherman.<br />

After J. C. there was James Hughes, a shy boy with warts on his<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s who took her to church dances <strong>and</strong> to the movies. She dated<br />

Blanton Gilman right through high school, but then he went <strong>of</strong>f to<br />

Hammond to college, <strong>and</strong> that was that. Ariane's mother called it—<br />

Blanton's <strong>of</strong>f studying bachelorhood is what. Boys like a girl with a<br />

little something upstairs, she told Ariane.<br />

Ariane was almost asleep now. She found herself thinking<br />

about—imagining, really—the Loudermilk place up in Shiver-de-<br />

Freeze, where she had never been. It was her wedding day, <strong>and</strong><br />

everyone was out in the backyard, <strong>and</strong> everything was just saturated<br />

with color <strong>and</strong> sharply defined. Brilliant sunshine, live oaks dripping<br />

with moss. The leaves so green they were red. She was taking<br />

her vows. Father Pat nodded. She said, With my body I thee<br />

worship. Whoops. She had to start over. Father Pat cleared his<br />

throat, spat into a h<strong>and</strong>kerchief, put the hanky up the sleeve <strong>of</strong> his<br />

cassock. The assembled guests all smiled. Ariane blushed, began<br />

again. I, Ariane, take thee, Grisham, to my bedded husb<strong>and</strong>. And<br />

then Grisham pulled a ring the size <strong>of</strong> a dinner plate out <strong>of</strong> his<br />

pocket.<br />

Ariane wanted to open her eyes but didn't have the will or the<br />

energy. Her reverie had a life <strong>of</strong> its own. Now everyone at the wedding<br />

decided to go swimming in the lake, clothes <strong>and</strong> all—so the<br />

leeches won't fasten to your skin. Of course, leeches can go right up<br />

under a wedding dress, someone said. Ariane heard her mother <strong>and</strong><br />

the priest downstairs, laughing like loons. She was grateful to be<br />

saved from bloodsuckers.


208<br />

—JAMES LEWISOHN<br />

Gulls<br />

The gulls in close<br />

their black-tipped<br />

wing beats almost<br />

motionless<br />

following the sea's wake<br />

the image <strong>of</strong> a forward<br />

quiet pulsing on the wind<br />

they seem to know<br />

they can't go back<br />

<strong>and</strong> thus becalmed<br />

they reverence their flight<br />

moving as they do down<br />

their own encirclement.<br />

One dives to spear a fish<br />

but coming back empty from the strike<br />

turns again in perfect symmetry.<br />

One gently sails so near<br />

I see his eye equivocating<br />

gliding as in sleep on the final<br />

pillow <strong>of</strong> the air.<br />

No sound. He nods, adjusts<br />

so slightly his intrepid flight<br />

he knows it makes no difference now<br />

he must go on like this<br />

until one day he falls<br />

as one condemned<br />

who still just for awhile<br />

enjoys his nimble movement<br />

in the air which now<br />

becomes his last perfection<br />

<strong>and</strong> the reason for his starting forth.


210<br />

Guernica<br />

Even the sea dies, Lorca said at a weak moment<br />

<strong>and</strong> the word fell from his mouth<br />

in a great red drop.<br />

That year in Guernica one bull survived<br />

the human mess, if we are to believe Picasso<br />

but Lorca grieved. He heard on the Spanish wind<br />

the last lament <strong>of</strong> trees<br />

but that was long ago in another l<strong>and</strong>.<br />

Today it has all changed<br />

there is no weeping in the Corrida<br />

no village <strong>of</strong> importance.<br />

These days a light breaks down one star at a time<br />

leaving a single man a window looking out<br />

<strong>and</strong> the animal that lives inside<br />

whose life is light, ventures out at night<br />

in the fabric <strong>of</strong> his dreams.<br />

These days a single man<br />

attempts to get his h<strong>and</strong>s on something<br />

that isn't something else.<br />

And when he looks to the dust<br />

to the knowledge <strong>of</strong> stones<br />

<strong>and</strong> the stone pillow in Jacob's dream<br />

he can not hear the weeping <strong>of</strong> the trees<br />

<strong>and</strong> his own. We would all be kings<br />

he cries but have become crown-weary.<br />

The night is not his nor the day his fire<br />

he knows in Guernica the dead commemorate the dead<br />

<strong>and</strong> being one <strong>of</strong> them<br />

leaves his shadow closer to the ground.<br />

The Call<br />

The phone rings<br />

a voice forty years ago<br />

asks you is it you<br />

<strong>and</strong> the talk that follows is<br />

from another life or the grave even<br />

you can't be sure.<br />

You exchange numbers<br />

<strong>and</strong> go <strong>and</strong> sit in your room<br />

which is now like an empty tomb.<br />

She is a widow but you don't remember<br />

her husb<strong>and</strong>, you were ten at the time<br />

but she still grieves <strong>and</strong> you grieve<br />

for her because she remembers what you<br />

can not.<br />

Outside the window the Christmas lights<br />

pierce the sky sending a rainbow<br />

<strong>of</strong> pulsations over the ro<strong>of</strong> <strong>of</strong> the world<br />

<strong>and</strong> traffic rushes by...<br />

why now you ask but there is no answer<br />

that holds it all. Somewhere<br />

in the distance an old man dies in the street<br />

a child is born, the day is risen<br />

in an ordinary way but something has changed<br />

<strong>and</strong> you want to touch her<br />

you want to sit at a table <strong>and</strong> ask them both<br />

what time it is <strong>and</strong> if you can come along<br />

for the evening.


212<br />

Basketball<br />

Down the court thudding hard through the center<br />

to turn or pivot <strong>and</strong> up up all rhythm all force<br />

or two h<strong>and</strong>ed from far outside the barriers<br />

a half-court shot l° n g ar >d perilous...<br />

but there is one inscrutable feat<br />

it comes from the farthest corner <strong>of</strong> the court<br />

shooting across without the backboards hope or vision.<br />

Here, it's just the outline <strong>of</strong> the basket's rim<br />

<strong>and</strong> all that space on the other side.<br />

This is shooting blind. One h<strong>and</strong>ed, up into an arc<br />

the ball hangs there more lonely than a star<br />

<strong>and</strong> lost, it rises <strong>and</strong> climbs into its own ab<strong>and</strong>onment.<br />

All that remains is the unmarked path<br />

neither sad nor bright <strong>and</strong> moving out <strong>of</strong> touch<br />

it has no master in the air.<br />

If it was right from the beginning<br />

it will not change<br />

<strong>and</strong> if not<br />

what remains on the other side<br />

is everlasting<br />

—PAUL MALISZEWSKI<br />

How the Breck Girl Came to Be<br />

On the ground there was a woman's compact. The compact's<br />

former owner (blonde, brunette, redhead, nobody knows for sure)<br />

dropped it at some point, perhaps after lunch or while talking or<br />

while running for her life. The important thing, what's important<br />

here, is that it was dropped. The compact was dropped, <strong>and</strong> now<br />

the woman considers it lost but likely does not miss it. The compact<br />

was smooth <strong>and</strong> gently rounded, its plastic case made in imitation<br />

<strong>of</strong> tortoise shell. The shape would not feel out <strong>of</strong> place in the palm<br />

<strong>of</strong> a h<strong>and</strong>. For a full twenty-nine days it weathered the elements outside<br />

a phone booth. First wet with rain then cooked by sun, the<br />

compact revealed nothing <strong>of</strong> its mystery. Rain then sun. Rain then<br />

sun. It changed not a bit.<br />

Chips <strong>of</strong> hail ticked against the compact, trying to crack it well<br />

before its time, but the compact did not open. Wind too the compact<br />

fought against, allowing only a slight whistle to pass from its<br />

lips <strong>and</strong> then only in the fiercest storms.<br />

During this time no one but children stooped to touch or disturb<br />

it, but even they didn't get far. Not with their mothers there.<br />

Not with the mothers who jerked them up from the ground <strong>and</strong><br />

slapped their filthy h<strong>and</strong>s at the slightest cause for alarm: "Get your<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s <strong>of</strong>f that," the mothers said. "I swear, child. What do you want<br />

with a dirty old compact?"<br />

One unseasonably warm afternoon that caught everyone by<br />

surprise <strong>and</strong> overdressed, when the men carried their overcoats folded<br />

over on their arms <strong>and</strong> the women allowed how terribly thank-


214<br />

ful they were for this day, the clasp on the compact broke, having<br />

been rusted straight through, <strong>and</strong> the compact snapped open. This<br />

disturbance sent a fine powder into the air. Had anyone noticed, it<br />

would have been the color <strong>of</strong> a blush, this cloud <strong>of</strong> powder, a blush<br />

at an <strong>of</strong>f-color joke perhaps. Its smell? Of lilacs. Sunlight reflected<br />

<strong>of</strong>f the mirror inside.<br />

Here was the birth <strong>of</strong> the Breck Girl. Originally she was small<br />

enough to st<strong>and</strong> like a princess on the s<strong>of</strong>t pad. Here was the Breck<br />

Girl, sprung fully-formed from the orphaned compact.<br />

As we know, she did not stay small for long. Hardly had she<br />

time to dust herself <strong>of</strong>f when the growing began. As she washed her<br />

face all over, including behind the ears (for even then her hygienic<br />

habits were nothing short <strong>of</strong> remarkable, her instincts for cleanliness<br />

those <strong>of</strong> a child well over thrice her age), she started to grow. Within<br />

an hour she was what we would term womanly in stature. By late<br />

afternoon she looked a bit odd. By dusk she stood as tall as a street<br />

lamp. A scant two hours later she was a giant. By evening we would<br />

have had to measure her in stories, <strong>and</strong> with double digits at that.<br />

By midnight she was gargantuan. At no time during this prodigious<br />

growth did she look to us anything less than beautiful.<br />

Before she left to begin her lonely years in the wilderness, where<br />

she would perfect her beauty tips, learn advanced marketing techniques,<br />

<strong>and</strong> develop demographic-based share projection theories so<br />

complex <strong>and</strong> yet so true as to bring tears to the eyes <strong>of</strong> a pr<strong>of</strong>essional,<br />

the Breck Girl cleaned up after herself. As a lady properly<br />

should. She bent at the knees <strong>and</strong> reached down to street-level.<br />

Though this was exceedingly hard to do, what with her huge h<strong>and</strong>s,<br />

h<strong>and</strong>s certainly capable <strong>of</strong> eclipsing small celestial bodies from our<br />

sight, she carefully collected the pieces <strong>of</strong> the broken clasp <strong>and</strong><br />

picked up her compact <strong>and</strong> took them with her.<br />

At first she kept the compact, holding on to it for its sentimental<br />

value. It was, after all, her first. Over the years she transferred it<br />

from purse to purse. Its utility, already in doubt due to the primitive<br />

cosmetology <strong>of</strong> the times, was directly proportional to the state<br />

<strong>of</strong> the make-up inside, <strong>and</strong> the make-up had long become dried <strong>and</strong><br />

caked. The mirror had even lost its silver.<br />

Now, <strong>of</strong> course, the Breck Girl's original compact is on perma-<br />

nent display. It is part <strong>of</strong> the collection <strong>of</strong> the Smithsonian Institute<br />

<strong>and</strong> can be found toward the back <strong>of</strong> a long corridor in the Hall <strong>of</strong><br />

American Commerce, ca. 1950. Groups <strong>of</strong> school children, trying<br />

their best to keep in a line hear the guard. "One line, please. One<br />

line." Don't heed his warning <strong>and</strong> routinely rush right by the compact,<br />

heading for the dinosaur exhibit or something to do with TV.<br />

When even regular museum-goers come to this hallway <strong>and</strong> walk to<br />

the very back, they <strong>of</strong>ten believe themselves lost. Even the dedicated<br />

visit this part <strong>of</strong> the collection only by sheer accident. This area<br />

<strong>of</strong> the museum is simply that bleak. The lost wonder how they got<br />

there. How had they missed "All My Children, All My Costumes,"<br />

the new exhibit <strong>of</strong> clothes from the soap opera? The vitrine <strong>of</strong> the<br />

Breck Girl's compact makes a perfect place for them to stop. Many<br />

spread out their maps on top <strong>of</strong> it, finding its height convenient for<br />

that sort <strong>of</strong> thing, <strong>and</strong> retrace the route they've taken. "I guess we<br />

should go back this way, right ... ?" The accidental, the happenstance,<br />

the quick nod <strong>of</strong> recognition before turning toward the<br />

exit—this is about all the interest the broken compact generates<br />

these days. We have always been personally taken by the deep purple<br />

pillow it rests on <strong>and</strong> the way the small bulb directed at the case<br />

from above can still make tiny flecks <strong>of</strong> something, glitter perhaps,<br />

show.


216<br />

—PAUL MALISZEWSKI<br />

The Wedding <strong>of</strong> the Breck Girl<br />

It was time for the Breck Girl to marry. She sensed this fact<br />

the way she sensed when the moment was right to issue a new<br />

product or redesign an old one or begin a radical, new <strong>and</strong><br />

improved advertising campaign <strong>and</strong> exp<strong>and</strong> into an unexplored<br />

market. She knew it was time for her to marry, but there were<br />

precious few available c<strong>and</strong>idates for her h<strong>and</strong>.<br />

She looked around her.<br />

The Jolly Green Giant was single <strong>of</strong> course, <strong>and</strong> though the<br />

Breck Girl liked his company plenty, particularly his easy laugh,<br />

she did not believe him true marriage material. She did not even<br />

believe he was himself interested in marriage, with her or anyone<br />

else.<br />

Like the Breck Girl, many consumers <strong>of</strong> Green Giant products<br />

wondered about his interest in marriage—or the lack <strong>of</strong> it.<br />

Over the years, many people wrote to his corporate father asking<br />

how come he's so damn happy, or how come there's no Jolly<br />

Green Giantess. It seemed that people could simply not accept<br />

that a person, giant or otherwise, green or otherwise, could be<br />

happy <strong>and</strong> alone.<br />

People became suspicious, as people will. Public suspicion<br />

reached a fevered pitch in the form <strong>of</strong> a ten page letter, each page<br />

more vituperative than the one before. This letter alleged, in no<br />

uncertain terms, that anybody as boundlessly happy as the Jolly<br />

Green Giant is without a soul <strong>and</strong> must either be clinically<br />

insane or queer, <strong>and</strong>, in either case, the letter writer avowed not<br />

T<br />

to any longer buy or eat the vegetables <strong>of</strong> such an individual.<br />

Well, the corporation acted fast. They'd seen it coming, <strong>of</strong><br />

course <strong>and</strong> were ready with some auxiliary characters for the<br />

Giant. After some high-level deliberating <strong>and</strong> many reports from<br />

internal sub-committees, they granted him a son, Sprout, thereby<br />

giving justifiable reason for his happiness. But this is another<br />

fable entirely, for when the Breck Girl knew the Jolly Green<br />

Giant <strong>and</strong> was actively seeking a husb<strong>and</strong>, he was single <strong>and</strong><br />

Sprout-less, the source <strong>of</strong> his personal happiness as inscrutable as<br />

ever. Though it must be said that the Jolly Green Giant's happiness<br />

is not as hard to underst<strong>and</strong> as all that. The Breck Girl<br />

thought she had a good idea anyway, <strong>and</strong> to explain, it's necessary<br />

to go back to when they first met.<br />

Before she knew the meaning <strong>of</strong> "marry," the Breck Girl was<br />

dirty. Not dirty-dirty <strong>and</strong> not, moreover, dirty like a man, but<br />

inarguably she was less than clean. She began to avoid all unnecessary<br />

contact with people. When the wind was right (or wrong<br />

depending on your point <strong>of</strong> view) she could smell herself. Obviously<br />

this put a crimp in her business plans, especially the expansion<br />

projections to which she'd worked so hard to adhere.<br />

She was sleeping in a valley. In those days she <strong>of</strong>ten did.<br />

Having found a hill on which she could comfortably rest her<br />

head, she was likely dreaming <strong>of</strong> an endless shower.<br />

The night before she had peeled an immense layer <strong>of</strong> sod up<br />

from the ground for a blanket. During the night, in tossing<br />

through eight hours <strong>of</strong> sleep—required for healthy-looking<br />

eyes—her immense blanket <strong>of</strong> sod had worked its way down <strong>of</strong>f<br />

her shoulders. The Jolly Green Giant noticed this when he came<br />

upon her <strong>and</strong> took it upon himself to tug it up to her chin <strong>and</strong><br />

sit still until she awakened.<br />

It was just past dawn, <strong>and</strong> the Jolly Green Giant had already<br />

put in a good three hours <strong>of</strong> work harvesting his vegetables. He<br />

had cleared nine fields <strong>of</strong> corn already, which work completely<br />

filled twenty-seven trucks, then presently on their way in a convoy<br />

painted green, to the nibblets packaging factory.<br />

For those who haven't had the chance to see the Jolly Green<br />

Giant harvest, it is a marvel, <strong>and</strong> regularly attracts a number <strong>of</strong>


218<br />

spectators, picnicking families, <strong>and</strong> couples on first dates. To<br />

give some idea: he begins st<strong>and</strong>ing at one corner <strong>of</strong> a field, <strong>and</strong><br />

will bend low <strong>and</strong> sweep his arm over the tops <strong>of</strong> the stalks. His<br />

reach can cover a wide area, as one might expect, up to six rows<br />

wide in either direction <strong>and</strong> an arc <strong>of</strong> twenty plus feet before<br />

him. As he sweeps his arms this way <strong>and</strong> that, alternating like a<br />

swimmer doing a mysterious turtle-like stroke, the corn, the<br />

many ripened ears <strong>of</strong> it, catch on his special jacket, on dangling<br />

hooks, which he had sewed in one winter. The Jolly One shakes<br />

his arm, loosening his catch into a waiting bin, <strong>and</strong> in this way<br />

he advances through the corn <strong>and</strong> the fields clear <strong>of</strong> produce.<br />

There are other devices <strong>and</strong> other ingenious innovations for<br />

carrots <strong>and</strong> the like. There is, for example, the corrugated pea<br />

pod straw <strong>of</strong> which we'd like to say more, but these are all the<br />

Giant's secrets, his intellectual property, <strong>and</strong> patents, as they say,<br />

are pending. Besides, it's high time for the Breck Girl, left slumbering<br />

under a blanket <strong>of</strong> sod proven inadequate, her head on a<br />

hill, to awaken.<br />

Well, the Breck Girl was pr<strong>of</strong>oundly embarrassed by her<br />

appearance. She hadn't been expecting company. However she<br />

made do <strong>and</strong> not for a moment showed any discomfort to the<br />

Jolly Green Giant sitting right beside her. It would not have<br />

been right to embarrass him after all.<br />

"Morning, ma'am," he said <strong>and</strong> introduced himself, <strong>of</strong>fering<br />

his h<strong>and</strong>.<br />

The Breck Girl became immediately conscious <strong>of</strong> how clean<br />

it was. No dirt under the nails. His cuticles neatly trimmed.<br />

Why she even smelled the clean on him. She could hardly<br />

remember the feeling herself. As soon as it was politely feasible,<br />

she drew her own unclean h<strong>and</strong>s back under the blanket <strong>and</strong><br />

stared up at him.<br />

She felt trapped <strong>and</strong> couldn't imagine a more trying situation<br />

than this. If she moved now he would see how dirty <strong>and</strong><br />

unkempt she was, both conditions she optimistically believed<br />

the blanket concealed. How could she move?<br />

The Jolly Green Giant sat, hugging his knees <strong>and</strong> whistling<br />

his theme song.<br />

The Breck Girl couldn't very well come out <strong>and</strong> ask, How do<br />

you ever stay so clean? To do so would immediately—<strong>and</strong><br />

unwisely, she thought—draw attention to her own filthiness. For<br />

the time being she stayed where she was, pretending with broad<br />

gestures <strong>and</strong> wide yawns to be still tired <strong>and</strong> thus not yet ready<br />

to rise.<br />

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" he said.<br />

She agreed at once.<br />

"How about we get some breakfast?" he asked her. "Maybe<br />

you might want to take a walk somewhere."<br />

The Breck Girl didn't know what to say. To turn him down<br />

flatly would be rude, but to accept meant she would have to<br />

move now. He could not see her like this. It was bad enough that<br />

he sat there so close to her. "Surely he smells me," she thought.<br />

"He's just being polite."<br />

"I can't go," she said finally, "I can't because ..." She was<br />

unsure how to complete the sentence. She had, it's true, plenty<br />

<strong>of</strong> options open to her, but all seemed equally rude <strong>and</strong> coarse<br />

<strong>and</strong> unfair.<br />

"I can't because I'm waiting for someone," she said. She<br />

immediately wanted to take that back. That wasn't how it was<br />

supposed to sound at all.<br />

After the Jolly Green Giant left, the Breck Girl followed<br />

him. She wanted to trail him to see how it was he stayed clean<br />

<strong>and</strong> washed.<br />

Now, seeing a person follow another can be comical (especially<br />

when it's done with an inexpert manner) <strong>and</strong> seeing a giant<br />

similarly engaged will only make prominent certain, shall we say,<br />

technical oversights. So it was not for long that the Breck Girl<br />

stayed hidden from him. It was not for long that she could duck<br />

<strong>and</strong> take cover behind hills.<br />

She did, however, stay hidden long enough to see him shower.<br />

The Breck Girl saw him pick first one, then two, dark clouds<br />

from the sky <strong>and</strong> wring them like sponges over his head, on his<br />

arms, <strong>and</strong> down his body. We think it was the sight <strong>of</strong> so much<br />

water that moved her to tears. She was at once thrilled by the<br />

sight <strong>and</strong> further ashamed <strong>of</strong> her appearance. How long had she


220<br />

gone without? She wanted to try the Giant's way herself.<br />

The Jolly Green Giant heard her crying. Though he would<br />

never tell her this, her loud sobs reminded him <strong>of</strong> a whole herd<br />

<strong>of</strong> wounded, lowing animals—lost perhaps, or starving. In any<br />

case, he showed her how to pick clouds from the sky, how to pull<br />

them down, careful not to break them; how to recognize the<br />

ones that held water; <strong>and</strong> how to avoid the lightning <strong>and</strong> thunder<br />

caused by rubbing two clouds together. In her gratitude the<br />

Breck Girl dug through her purse <strong>and</strong> finding what she wanted,<br />

h<strong>and</strong>ed him her card, which was the size <strong>of</strong> one <strong>of</strong> your billboards.<br />

"My card," she said.<br />

The Jolly Green Giant took it as if he knew what it was. He<br />

tugged another cloud down <strong>and</strong> batted it gently toward her.<br />

Then he went his way.<br />

That night <strong>and</strong> regularly thereafter he held the Breck Girl's<br />

card in his h<strong>and</strong>s, straining to underst<strong>and</strong> what it said. No<br />

amount <strong>of</strong> squinting could help him. Though he concentrated,<br />

bent on making out its message, it didn't matter. He held it up<br />

to the light <strong>and</strong> he looked at it from every conceivable angle. He<br />

tore <strong>of</strong>f one <strong>of</strong> the corners <strong>and</strong> tasted it. He bent it, folded it,<br />

<strong>and</strong> rolled it. Once he tried strumming it against his ear. Some<br />

nights he held on to it so hard tiny sprouts <strong>and</strong> small yellow<br />

flowers pushed from between his fingers from the exertion.<br />

Later, when she saw him again (<strong>and</strong> she did, <strong>of</strong>ten), the<br />

Breck Girl would apologize for her original rudeness. She would<br />

not explain why she'd snubbed him <strong>and</strong> behaved as she did. A<br />

lady, she knew intuitively, would not <strong>and</strong> should not needlessly<br />

draw attention to her own failings. Some things are best kept<br />

secret.<br />

If the Jolly Green Giant was not there to marry, then who<br />

was?<br />

The Breck Girl turned her attention <strong>and</strong> focused all her<br />

energies on a newcomer: Mr. Clean. For those who believe this<br />

a very odd match, consider this: He has good teeth, <strong>and</strong> he is,<br />

above all else, very clean.<br />

At the wedding everyone was in attendance. Everyone<br />

turned out for the wedding <strong>of</strong> the Breck Girl <strong>and</strong> Mr. Clean.<br />

Hungry Jack dropped by (he brought his mother as his guest).<br />

Hungry brought pastries <strong>of</strong> fabulous shapes <strong>and</strong> enormous size,<br />

Elsie the Cow was there; she wore a purple silk dress with<br />

org<strong>and</strong>y trim which she allowed was custom-made for her the<br />

last time she "swung through New York City." She sat beside<br />

Tony the Tiger during the ceremony <strong>and</strong> afterward talked to him<br />

almost exclusively. The Brawny lumberjack came too, <strong>and</strong> he<br />

volunteered to stay late <strong>and</strong> help clean up after the guests had<br />

gone or retired from the evening's festivities. The Sun-Maid<br />

Raisin Maid arrived late <strong>and</strong> though it might not be right to criticize<br />

her appearance, that she showed up in the very outfit—<br />

apron, bonnet, <strong>and</strong> old dress—she wears in the fields each <strong>and</strong><br />

every day was not lost on all the guests. It was unclear who her<br />

escort was. The Michelin Man stood over the punch bowl the<br />

whole time. He became violently drunk, which is to be expected.<br />

(Many thought it kind <strong>of</strong> the Breck Girl to invite him, but<br />

she should have known better, or at least not been surprised<br />

when he started tipping tables, intentionally bumping into<br />

guests, <strong>and</strong> engaging in all the untoward behavior for which he<br />

is now quite widely known.) Some guests say they saw the Marlboro<br />

Man on a nearby hill, silhouetted against the sky. But he<br />

kept his distance <strong>and</strong> remained on horseback. Perhaps he could<br />

have stepped in <strong>and</strong> taken care <strong>of</strong> Michelin Man before he<br />

became so abusive.<br />

Even the Jolly Green Giant, swallowing his envy, accepted<br />

the invitation. He stood in the receiving line like everyone else.<br />

After waiting his turn, he pumped Mr. Clean's h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> clapped<br />

him on the back <strong>and</strong> then lightly hugged the bride.<br />

As it turned out, the Jolly Green Giant came with the best<br />

gifts <strong>of</strong> all. Under each arm he carried a mammoth cornucopia,<br />

each one larger than a Japanese sub-compact. After the wedding<br />

party, an enterprising real estate impresario would claim the<br />

emptied husks for himself, refurbish them cheaply, heat them<br />

only slightly, <strong>and</strong> advertise them as student housing.<br />

The Jolly Green Giant set both down on the lawn. From the<br />

first rolled his vegetables, the largest <strong>of</strong> this year's crop. The


222<br />

guests were in awe. He'd been saving these choice vegetables for<br />

Breck Girl <strong>and</strong> Mr. Clean. But the vegetables were not the Jolly<br />

Green Giant's only gift.<br />

Just as all the guests gathered by the first cornucopia, some<br />

dancing around it, others running <strong>of</strong>f to the catering tent with<br />

an imperial striped squash or a child-sized pumpkin—just as<br />

everyone thought the first cornucopia the tops <strong>and</strong> the second<br />

just more vegetables, the Jolly Green Giant turned his attention<br />

to that second husk.<br />

Bending down, he tapped twice on a cabbage wedged solidly<br />

into the opening <strong>and</strong> stepped back. From inside there was the<br />

sound <strong>of</strong> much bustle <strong>and</strong> struggle. The cabbage began to shake<br />

at first. Then there was more movement inside. Finally the cabbage<br />

came unstuck <strong>and</strong> spun out onto the lawn. Smaller guests<br />

jumped out <strong>of</strong> the way, wisely choosing not to interrupt it in its<br />

vaguely elliptical path. The Chuckwagon (<strong>of</strong> Chuckwagon br<strong>and</strong><br />

dog food) was caught unawares <strong>and</strong> crushed. No one was<br />

injured, thankfully, <strong>and</strong> the repairs were easy. But just like that<br />

the cabbage was gone, rolling down a hillside <strong>and</strong> disappearing<br />

behind some tents.<br />

The wedding guests laughed <strong>and</strong> turned to inspect the Jolly<br />

Green Giant's second gift.<br />

There was silence <strong>and</strong> then there was music—from inside<br />

the cornucopia.<br />

First came a trombone player, Hokie Mokie, the best anyone<br />

knew. Then a guy playing quick, festive trills on a penny whistle.<br />

A three-person string section—violin, viola, <strong>and</strong> cello—w<strong>and</strong>ered<br />

out <strong>and</strong> took their places on the lawn. There was also a<br />

coven <strong>of</strong> guitarists, a flock <strong>of</strong> tamborinists, <strong>and</strong> a not-to-bemissed<br />

g<strong>and</strong>er <strong>of</strong> castanets-ists.<br />

The guests started clapping along with the party music but<br />

stopped when a loud pounding drowned out their merrymaking.<br />

It too came from inside.<br />

A lone drummer came last. A fellow with his drum slung<br />

over his belly <strong>and</strong> exotic percussive instruments tied to each<br />

h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> foot. As he played the guests began to notice other<br />

drums on his body. Between his knees for instance, which he<br />

tirelessly bowed, opening <strong>and</strong> closing them like bellows. The<br />

human drum beat <strong>and</strong> played hard. Of all the musicians he<br />

played hardest. He played until the evening ended, the party<br />

died down, <strong>and</strong> the Breck Girl <strong>and</strong> Mr. Clean, enormously<br />

patient hosts to be sure, w<strong>and</strong>ered <strong>of</strong>f to be alone with each<br />

other.


224<br />

—HEDI KADDOUR<br />

The Poppies<br />

Fate, perhaps it's true that it began<br />

by trading on the futures <strong>of</strong> waterfalls<br />

<strong>and</strong> tall trees, the pride there<br />

on the masters' faces when they deign<br />

to spare the asses <strong>of</strong> their threadbare female cousins.<br />

Who knows the truth? The one who struck the blows<br />

<strong>and</strong> the one who was beaten. She came<br />

from an Oberl<strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> soiled silences<br />

<strong>and</strong> lived with them, said, Water will boil,<br />

<strong>and</strong> Women now have new responsibilities;<br />

also loved, stretched in the grass, to thank the God<br />

<strong>of</strong> sunlight <strong>and</strong> vaginal spasms, <strong>and</strong> when<br />

they had set fire to all the poppies <strong>of</strong> Europe<br />

she cried out The people! And in my l<strong>and</strong>, in Kiental,<br />

the socialists'. But Arabs, you know<br />

how they brag... Her husb<strong>and</strong> shut her up, left first<br />

came back plus a medal, less a leg, list<br />

<strong>of</strong> all the Mohammeds dead at Verdun. She exclaimed, It's<br />

madness, not you, there in Russia,<br />

she hauled her cripple around, it drove her mad,<br />

yes, no dealings with the enemy,<br />

you must be able, even for twenty years<br />

to take care <strong>of</strong> heroes' wives, said the prosecutor.<br />

The End <strong>of</strong> the Wine-Harvest<br />

And so many things which return end up<br />

in the swamp <strong>of</strong> that aged adolescent Narcissus,<br />

sometimes even victims' songs. It should be noted<br />

that those who bite into the first snowfall, or who are<br />

content to passionately hug an adjective<br />

are not exempted. Finally,<br />

-Paul Celan<br />

no one. Might it be an authentic witness, in the vineyard<br />

terraced on rosy stones, the last brass b<strong>and</strong><br />

made <strong>of</strong> the others' debris? It plays, a bit<br />

by force <strong>of</strong> circumstances, the whole repertory: nearer<br />

to you, the young nursemaid <strong>and</strong> tra la la. It's<br />

the end <strong>of</strong> the wine-harvest, a year before<br />

the noble rot returns. Grapevines at least<br />

know how to set traps for themselves, poetry too. So<br />

don't laugh when the hanged man strangles his own rope.<br />

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MARILYN HACKER<br />

2:


226<br />

—JOHN SUROWIECKI<br />

The Mermaid <strong>of</strong> Sag Harbor<br />

She unmendeleevs you. In her room are<br />

vials, flasks, inks, potions, something like<br />

a centrifuge holding rollers. Her bed is an<br />

eddy <strong>of</strong> sheets, hissing from salt. The blue<br />

<strong>of</strong> sea kings shines through her pale skin.<br />

She's the adventuress in a sinking house,<br />

entertained by jewelry <strong>and</strong> lines <strong>of</strong> coke.<br />

She will ask for warmth against warmth<br />

generating new warmth with nothing to<br />

say except how warm the warmth is or<br />

how quiet the quiet is or how mighty the<br />

night winds are that shred the cafe flags.<br />

Sea urchins are the coins <strong>of</strong> her mistrust;<br />

gulls chart for her a geography <strong>of</strong> exits.<br />

—ELISABETH FROST<br />

Sea Grasses<br />

Attempts at constancy, s<strong>and</strong>-rooted green:<br />

they live with the pertinacity <strong>of</strong> the saints<br />

loathing the displays <strong>of</strong> tide after tide<br />

pulling back from the water's shifting edge<br />

to make their own. The wind catches<br />

pushes on. Still they do nothing<br />

from the root but nourish the bent hope<br />

not to be moved, to stay solid in a world<br />

unspeakably thin. Their story tells itself<br />

over in the foam's noise, same as always:<br />

little second sea, little after-thought<br />

colonies <strong>of</strong> anti-sky, feeding <strong>and</strong> feeding<br />

on nothing at all, with nothing to give back.<br />

after Katha Pollitt


228<br />

—LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO<br />

Seven Objective Correlatives<br />

There is the red dress in the small rain<br />

Hanging on the clothesline on a foggy afternoon<br />

In Wales. The little Dalai Lama said his servants<br />

Carry always all his songbirds in their cages<br />

& his personals effects shall all be wrapped in yellow silk.<br />

He leaves the palace <strong>of</strong> one thous<strong>and</strong> rooms not frequently.<br />

Like the Veronese green curtain opened on a puppet play.<br />

A spray <strong>of</strong> ruinberries in her h<strong>and</strong> makes for a spreading<br />

Wound. The River Adige is clay & fast along the salt<br />

& amber route. Damage is recomposed Fate. So long,<br />

Old God, in a blister-copper sun a subject is as reckless<br />

As a happenstance. There is no occasion left, milori blue.<br />

In Umbria, a careless gauzy spirit tethers<br />

To this madder world & will not let go the tethering.<br />

Portrait <strong>of</strong> the Poet as Augustus Egg<br />

The last thing you will ever draw is an angel in black boots,<br />

Floating heavenward on green <strong>and</strong> sinewed wings.<br />

In the miserere, you will pray for peace <strong>of</strong> mind, <strong>and</strong> then<br />

Complain. The moon is three-quarters full<br />

Of night, as seen from the vaulted<br />

Shadow <strong>of</strong> an Adelphi arch beside the River Thames.<br />

I am tired <strong>of</strong> women who are sad. I am tired <strong>of</strong><br />

Men who are tired. You are unwholesome mantling<br />

The water with an ochre light.


-R. H. /. E'H n H W M m m puitt •<br />

a' B &ap/Mrte. s'aa<br />

pa6ory KpHtpe-<br />

H pa6p*iHx nspTHfi feponw,<br />

npuHttr Mroro'ftbiA^^bicy<br />

nporpecc<br />

3A MMP, BE30nACH0CTb, COTPYflHMHECTB(<br />

M COUKAJlbHbIM nPOTPECC B EBPOni<br />

«-•«».' *Z*<br />

•C •••- I -'ll-/ 1- J'.<br />

'"!" l ".--^."-s' : t"<br />

IIpeM B HecTb ynacTUHKOB<br />

6<br />

, . . 4"t«,,, HUMBI u-priVf^t'-Vc n'<br />

KOMMyHHCTHSeCKHXiBcTpm TOB. il. H. BpewHeea c TOB. H. Kaflapo<br />

I A 3 p a B O T y - '•^••"±~?. ••'•••• ••• : ' : ; i2:_ZiL::' : •»"• '-•'-"" '..' ^ ; '<br />

- - u. u. "•!—» -K"i"t •iD^rnau'i TAD H U Finau/uoDi r TAD U Uiuitidru<br />

Bctpesa TOB. Jl. K. BpewHeBa c TOB. A. KyHbMo<br />

-igss'Bisa ^HS'rvS! S : !SS ? ZiS''- K^Jri 1 !)<br />

Karl Haendel, Birthday Drawing (2001) Pencil on p


232<br />

CONTRIBUTORS' NOTES<br />

AI is the authour <strong>of</strong> six books <strong>of</strong> poetry, most recently Vice (1999),<br />

winner <strong>of</strong> the National Book Award. She currently teaches at<br />

Oklahoma State University <strong>and</strong> lives in Stillwater, Oklahoma.<br />

MIKE ALBO'S first novel, Hornito: My Lie Life, was published by<br />

HarperCollins in October 2000. He has performed three solo<br />

shows, Mike Albo (Here Theater, 1998); Spray (PS 122 <strong>and</strong><br />

Baltimore's Center Stage, 1999); <strong>and</strong> Please Everything Burst<br />

(PS 122, 2000), all co-written with Virginia Heffernan. He has<br />

performed all over New York City <strong>and</strong> beyond, including The<br />

National <strong>Art</strong>s Club; Joe's Pub; Moonwork (at Stella Adler<br />

Conservatory); Stories at the Moth; Highways in Los Angeles;<br />

Buddies in Bad Times Theater in Toronto; Komedia in Brighton,<br />

Engl<strong>and</strong>; the Soho Theater in London; <strong>and</strong> for National Public<br />

Radio. Selections <strong>of</strong> his work appear in Extreme Exposure: An<br />

Anthology <strong>of</strong> Solo Performance Texts from the Twentieth Century, edited<br />

by Jo Bonney. Please Everything Burst recently received a<br />

nomination for a GLAAD Media Award. His written work has<br />

appeared in Out, New York Magazine, The Baffler <strong>and</strong> others. He<br />

wrote <strong>and</strong> produced Sexotheque, a two-act play, at The Kraine<br />

Theater in New York City June 2000.<br />

AGHA SHAH ID ALI'S most recent credits include Ravishing<br />

Disunities: Real Ghazals in English, published by Wesleyan, <strong>and</strong><br />

Rooms Are Never Finished, forthcoming from Norton, in which<br />

"The Fourth Day" will appear.<br />

LAYLAH ALI was born in 1968 in Buffalo, New York. She has exhibited<br />

at ICA Boston in Massachusetts, at the Yerba Buena Gardens<br />

in San Francisco, <strong>and</strong> at the Museum <strong>of</strong> Contemporary <strong>Art</strong> in<br />

Chicago. She was educated at Washington University in St. Louis<br />

<strong>and</strong> at the Skowhegan School <strong>of</strong> Painting <strong>and</strong> Sculpture in Maine.<br />

RICHARD BARNES has been featured is group shows at the Ansel<br />

Adams Center in San Francisco, the San Francisco Museum <strong>of</strong><br />

Modern, <strong>and</strong> the Philadelphia Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>. His work is in the<br />

public collections <strong>of</strong> the Metropolitan Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, the Los<br />

Angeles County Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, <strong>and</strong> the New York Public Library.<br />

He is a contributing editor <strong>of</strong> Nest.<br />

STEPHEN BARKER received his B.F.A. from Cooper Union in 1999.<br />

His work has been featured in group shows at the Wessel O'Connor<br />

Gallery in New York, curated by Vince Aletti, <strong>and</strong> Fnac<br />

Montparnasse in Paris, curated by Nan Goldin. His work is in the<br />

public collections <strong>of</strong> The New York Public Library <strong>and</strong> the San<br />

Francisco Museum <strong>of</strong> Modern <strong>Art</strong>.<br />

NAYLAND BLAKE is from New York City. He has studied at the<br />

California Institute <strong>and</strong> Bard College. His work has recently<br />

appeared in Time Out New York <strong>and</strong> The Village Voice. He has exhibited<br />

at the Herbert F. Johnson Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> in Ithaca, New York<br />

<strong>and</strong> at Matthew Marks Gallery in New York City.<br />

LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO is the author <strong>of</strong> A Hunger, The Master<br />

Letters, <strong>and</strong> Trouble in Mind, forthcoming from Knopf (2002). She<br />

is Director <strong>of</strong> Poetry at <strong>Columbia</strong> University's School <strong>of</strong> the <strong>Art</strong>s.<br />

JUDY BUDNITZ received her B.A. from Harvard <strong>and</strong> an M.F.A. from<br />

New York University. She is the author <strong>of</strong> the story<br />

collection Flying Leap <strong>and</strong> the novel If I Told You Once. The latter<br />

received the Wallant Award <strong>and</strong> was shortlisted for Britain's Orange<br />

Prize. Both books are also published in Great Britain, the<br />

Netherl<strong>and</strong>s, Germany, Japan, <strong>and</strong> Spain. Her stories have appeared<br />

in The Paris Review, McSweeney's, Story, <strong>and</strong> Glimmer Train; <strong>and</strong> in<br />

the anthologies Prize Stories 2000: The O. Henry Awards, 25 <strong>and</strong><br />

Under/Fiction, Seeing <strong>and</strong> Writing, <strong>and</strong> The Year's Best Fantasy <strong>and</strong><br />

Horror. She is currently a visiting lecturer at Brown University.<br />

DAVID BUNN lives <strong>and</strong> works in Los Angeles. His ongoing project,<br />

drawn from the remains <strong>of</strong> the discarded card catalog from the Los<br />

Angeles Central Library (which is entirely in his possession), has<br />

resulted in four large-scale installations <strong>and</strong> fourteen artist's books.


234<br />

His work has been shown in such international venues as Haus der<br />

Kunst, Munich; Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin; the Barbican, London.<br />

In New York he has exhibited at PS 1, The Drawing Center,<br />

Basilico Fine <strong>Art</strong>s, <strong>and</strong> David Zwirner Gallery; in California, at<br />

Burnett Miller, Margo Leavin, Shashona Wayne, Museum <strong>of</strong> Contemporary<br />

<strong>Art</strong>, Los Angeles County Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, Santa Monica<br />

Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, Newport Harbor Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>. His work can be<br />

seen through Brooke Alex<strong>and</strong>er, New York, Carolina Nitsch Contemporary<br />

<strong>Art</strong>, New York, <strong>and</strong> Angles Gallery, Santa Monica.<br />

ELIZABETH COLLINS lives in Iowa City, Iowa <strong>and</strong> is currently a<br />

student in the University <strong>of</strong> Iowa's M.F.A. Program in Nonfiction<br />

Writing where she is completing a memoir about her life as an<br />

adoptee. She recently won the Barbara Lounsberry prize for Best<br />

Essay <strong>of</strong> Literary Nonfiction at the University <strong>of</strong> Northern Iowa's<br />

annual Celebrating Critical Writing Conference. She is a former<br />

newspaper reporter <strong>and</strong> has had freelance articles published in<br />

1099, an online magazine for independent pr<strong>of</strong>essionals, <strong>and</strong> in<br />

Parenting from the Heart, a quarterly magazine for nursing<br />

mothers.<br />

MATTHEW DERBY'S fiction has appeared in Fence, Conjunctions, <strong>and</strong><br />

3 rd bed. He lives <strong>and</strong> works in Providence, Rhode Isl<strong>and</strong>.<br />

JOHN DUFRESNE is author <strong>of</strong> the short story collection How Water<br />

Enters Stone <strong>and</strong> the novels Louisiana Power <strong>and</strong> Light <strong>and</strong> Love<br />

Warps the Mind a Little. His new novel Deep in the Shade <strong>of</strong> Paradise<br />

is forthcoming.<br />

NICOLE EISENMAN was born in Verdun, France <strong>and</strong> received an<br />

M.F.A. in painting from Rhode Isl<strong>and</strong> School <strong>of</strong> Design. She has<br />

had solo exhibitions at Entwhistle Gallery, London <strong>and</strong> Jack Tilton<br />

Gallery, New York. Her work has been included in group exhibitions<br />

at the Center on Contemporary <strong>Art</strong>, Seattle; Museum for<br />

Contemporary <strong>Art</strong>, Miami; Alex<strong>and</strong>ras Soutzos Museum, Athens,<br />

Greece, <strong>and</strong> the Whitney Museum <strong>of</strong> American <strong>Art</strong>, New York. She<br />

is the recipient <strong>of</strong> grants from The Joan Mitchell Foundation, <strong>and</strong><br />

the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation.<br />

NICK FLYNN'S first book <strong>of</strong> poems, Some Ether (Graywolf Press,<br />

2000), was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.<br />

ELISABETH FROST'S poetry has appeared in The Yale Review, The<br />

New Engl<strong>and</strong> Review, Poetry, The Denver Quarterly, The <strong>Journal</strong>,<br />

Boulevard, Shen<strong>and</strong>oah, <strong>and</strong> other periodicals. She has recently<br />

completed a manuscript <strong>of</strong> poems called Fortunes <strong>and</strong> a critical<br />

study <strong>of</strong> feminist avant-garde poets in America. She is an assistant<br />

pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> English at Fordham University, where she directs the<br />

Poets Out Loud Prize <strong>and</strong> reading series.<br />

NICOLA GARDINI is Assistant Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> Comparative <strong>Literature</strong> at<br />

the University <strong>of</strong> Palermo, Italy, <strong>and</strong> Visiting Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> Italian<br />

<strong>Literature</strong> at <strong>Columbia</strong> University <strong>and</strong> at New York University in<br />

Florence. He is coeditor <strong>of</strong> the literary monthly Poesia (Milan,<br />

Italy). As a comparatist, he has published books <strong>of</strong> literary criticism<br />

{Le umaneparole, 1997; Critica letteraria e leUeratura italiana, 1999;<br />

L'antico, il nuovo, lo straniero nella lirica moderna. Esempi da una<br />

storia della poesia, 2000), numerous articles on ancient <strong>and</strong> modern<br />

poetry, <strong>and</strong> translations <strong>of</strong> Latin, English <strong>and</strong> French authors. As a<br />

poet, he has published two collections <strong>of</strong> verse {La primavera, 1995<br />

<strong>and</strong> Atlas, 1998). He is currently working on an outline <strong>of</strong><br />

comparative literature <strong>and</strong> on two new books <strong>of</strong> poems {T.'s Letter<br />

is included in one <strong>of</strong> them). He lives in Milan.<br />

NAN GOLDIN was born in Washington, D.C. She has received the<br />

Br<strong>and</strong>eis Award in Photography <strong>and</strong> the Louis Comfort Tiffany<br />

Foundation Award. Recently, she has exhibited at Matthew Marks<br />

Gallery in New York City, at the Contemporary <strong>Art</strong>s Museum in<br />

Houston, Texas, <strong>and</strong> at the National Gallery <strong>of</strong> Icel<strong>and</strong> in<br />

Reykjavik.<br />

JAMES GRINWIS'S poems are forthcoming in American Poetry<br />

Review, Gulf Coast, Poet Lore <strong>and</strong> Rhino. He received the 1999<br />

Mudfish poetry award, judged by C. K. Williams. He lives in


236<br />

Belchertown <strong>and</strong> teaches high school English in Worcester,<br />

Massachusetts.<br />

PIOTR GWIAZDA teaches English <strong>and</strong> writing at the Fashion<br />

Institute <strong>of</strong> Technology in New York. His poems have recently<br />

appeared in Rattle, Washington Square <strong>and</strong> are forthcoming in<br />

Confrontation <strong>and</strong> Connecticut Review. He is presently working on a<br />

book about James Merrill.<br />

MARILYN HACKER is the author <strong>of</strong> nine books <strong>of</strong> poems, most<br />

recently Squares <strong>and</strong> Courtyards (Norton, 2000). She co-edited a<br />

special issue <strong>of</strong> Poetry on contemporary French poets in the fall <strong>of</strong><br />

2000. A Long-Gone Sun, translations <strong>of</strong> a narrative poem by Claire<br />

Malroux, was published by the Sheep Meadow Press in 2000; Here<br />

There Was Once a Country, translations <strong>of</strong> Venus Khoury-Ghata,<br />

will appear with Oberlin College Press in 2001.<br />

KARL HAENDEL is an artist pursuing his M.F.A. at UCLA. He has<br />

previously studied at Brown University <strong>and</strong> the Whitney Independent<br />

Study Program.<br />

KERRY HANLON is a Ph.D. c<strong>and</strong>idate <strong>and</strong> literature instructor at<br />

University <strong>of</strong> California at Davis. She is writing her dissertation on<br />

live burials (both literal <strong>and</strong> literary). Faced with a shortage <strong>of</strong> live<br />

burial references in contemporary American literature, she wrote a<br />

play called A Twinkle in the Dirt in which the main<br />

character gets buried alive. If it's a Broadway hit maybe her<br />

committee will let her discuss it in her dissertation.<br />

Lis HARRIS received a B.A. from Bennington College <strong>and</strong> was a staff<br />

writer at The New Yorker from 1970 to 1995. In addition to<br />

innumerable articles, reviews <strong>and</strong> commentaries, she is the author<br />

<strong>of</strong> Holy Days: The World <strong>of</strong> a Hasidic Family, Rules <strong>of</strong> Engagement:<br />

Four American Marriages, <strong>and</strong> the forthcoming The Mill. She was<br />

editor <strong>of</strong> the Village Voice Literary Supplement horn 1973-75 <strong>and</strong><br />

visiting pr<strong>of</strong>essor at Wesleyan University from 1990-94. A two-time<br />

Woodrow Wilson Lila Acheson Wallace Fellowship recipient, she<br />

was awarded grants in 1998 from the J.M. Kaplan Fund <strong>and</strong> the<br />

Fund for the City <strong>of</strong> New York; in 1998 <strong>and</strong> 1999 from the<br />

Rockefeller Fund <strong>and</strong> in 2001 from the German Marshall Fund.<br />

RICHARD HOWARD received a B.A. from <strong>Columbia</strong> in 1951 <strong>and</strong> did<br />

graduate work at <strong>Columbia</strong> <strong>and</strong> The Sorbonne. He is the author <strong>of</strong><br />

eleven books <strong>of</strong> poetry, including Untitled Subjects (Pulitzer Prize,<br />

1970) <strong>and</strong>, most recently, Trappings, as well as the critical study<br />

Alone with America <strong>and</strong> the critical prefaces <strong>of</strong> the anthology Preferences.<br />

He has edited the Library <strong>of</strong> America edition <strong>of</strong> The Travel Writings<br />

<strong>of</strong> Henry fames <strong>and</strong> the 1995 edition <strong>of</strong> The Best American Poetry<br />

<strong>and</strong> has served as the poetry editor <strong>of</strong> several periodicals, a function<br />

he now occupies at The Paris Review <strong>and</strong> Western Humanities<br />

Review. He is the translator <strong>of</strong> some 150 works from French. In<br />

1983 he received the American Book Award. He has also received<br />

the PEN Translation Medal <strong>and</strong> the French-American Prize <strong>and</strong> was<br />

designated a Chevalier de L'Ordre National du Merite by the<br />

French government in 1982. A member <strong>of</strong> the American Academy<br />

<strong>and</strong> Institute <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>s <strong>and</strong> Letters since 1983, he has served as the<br />

Poet Laureate <strong>of</strong> New York State (1994-1997) <strong>and</strong> the President <strong>of</strong><br />

PEN American Center (1978-1980). After serving as Luce Visiting<br />

Scholar at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale in 1983, as<br />

Ropes Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> Comparative <strong>Literature</strong> at the University <strong>of</strong><br />

Cincinnati, <strong>and</strong> as University Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> English at the University<br />

<strong>of</strong> Houston (1987-1997), he became Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> Writing at<br />

<strong>Columbia</strong> in 1997. He reviews regularly for The New York Times,<br />

The Los Angeles Times, <strong>and</strong> many literary magazines <strong>and</strong> serves as the<br />

director <strong>of</strong> the James Dickey Poetry Series at the University <strong>of</strong> South<br />

Carolina (fourteen volumes to date). He was awarded a Mac<strong>Art</strong>hur<br />

Fellowship in 1996.<br />

LUISA I GLORIA published five books <strong>of</strong> poetry under the name<br />

Maria Luisa A. Carifio: Cordillera Tales (New Day, 1990),<br />

Cartography (Anvil, 1992), Encanto (Anvil, 1994), In the Garden <strong>of</strong><br />

the Three Isl<strong>and</strong>s (Moyer Bell, 1995), <strong>and</strong> Blood Sacrifice<br />

(University <strong>of</strong> the Philippines Press, 1997). She was a National<br />

Book Award finalist in the Philippines in 1999 for Songs for the


238<br />

Beginning <strong>of</strong> the Millennium.<br />

BILL JACOBSON received his B.EA. from Brown University (1977)<br />

<strong>and</strong> his M.F.A. from the San Francisco <strong>Art</strong> Institute (1981). His<br />

work has been featured in group shows at the Brooklyn Museum <strong>of</strong><br />

<strong>Art</strong>, the Guggenheim Museum, <strong>and</strong> the San Francisco Museum <strong>of</strong><br />

Modern <strong>Art</strong>. His work is in the permanent collection <strong>of</strong> the<br />

Metropolitan Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, the Museum <strong>of</strong> Fine <strong>Art</strong>s in Boston,<br />

<strong>and</strong> the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.<br />

HEDI KADDOUR was born in Tunisia in 1945, but has lived in France<br />

since childhood. He has published three books <strong>of</strong> poems with<br />

Gallimard: La Fin des vendanges (1989), Jamais une ombre simple<br />

(1994) <strong>and</strong> Un parcours au Luxembourg (2000), as well as three<br />

books <strong>of</strong> poems <strong>and</strong> a collection <strong>of</strong> essays with smaller<br />

publishers. He lives in Paris, teaches comparative <strong>and</strong> French<br />

literature, drama, <strong>and</strong> creative writing at L'Ecole Normale<br />

Superieure in Lyon, <strong>and</strong> writes a quarterly column on theater for La<br />

Nouvelle revue francaise. Other poems <strong>of</strong> his, in Marilyn Hacker's<br />

translation, have appeared or will appear in Americn Poetry Review,<br />

The Paris Review, Poetry, PN Review, Prairie Schooner <strong>and</strong>. Verse. His<br />

work combines sensuality with erudition <strong>and</strong> wit, questions the<br />

structures <strong>of</strong> syntax itself, <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong>ten dialogues with classical forms.<br />

WAYNE KOESTENBAUM is a pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> English at the Graduate<br />

Center <strong>of</strong> the City University <strong>of</strong> New York. He has published three<br />

books <strong>of</strong> poetry, most recently The Milk <strong>of</strong> Inquiry (1999), <strong>and</strong> four<br />

books <strong>of</strong> prose, most recently Cleavage: Sex, Stars, <strong>and</strong> Aesthetics<br />

(2000).<br />

DEBORAH LANDAU'S poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in<br />

Prairie Schooner, New York Quarterly, Mudfish, <strong>Columbia</strong> Poetry<br />

Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Midwest Quarterly, Painted Bride<br />

Quarterly, ONTHEBUS, Salam<strong>and</strong>er, <strong>and</strong> Gulf Coast. One <strong>of</strong> her<br />

poems was nominated for a 1999 Pushcart Prize. She teaches<br />

poetry <strong>and</strong> creative writing at The New School.<br />

JAMES LEWISOHN'S poetry <strong>and</strong> prose have appeared in hundreds <strong>of</strong><br />

magazines <strong>and</strong> journals including The New Yorker, The American<br />

Poetry Review, The New York Quarterly <strong>and</strong> The Atlantic<br />

Monthly. Anthologized in numerous anthologies, he won the<br />

"Discovery'VThe Nation 1973 award <strong>and</strong> a National Endowment<br />

Creative Writing Award in 1977. He has published four books <strong>of</strong><br />

poetry <strong>and</strong> prose, <strong>and</strong> edited four anthologies. He lives in Bar<br />

Harbor, Maine, where he survives any way he can.<br />

ALEX LIN designed the cover font Donut Face. He received his<br />

M.F.A. in graphic design at Yale University in 2001.<br />

TIMOTHY LIU'S new book <strong>of</strong> poems, Hard Evidence, will be<br />

published by Talisman House in June 2001. He lives in<br />

Hoboken, New Jersey.<br />

SARAH LUCAS was born in London where she lives <strong>and</strong> works. She<br />

was educated at the Working Men's College, at the London College<br />

<strong>of</strong> Printmaking, <strong>and</strong> Goldsmith's College, all in London. She has<br />

exhibited recently at the Tomio Koyama Gallery in Tokyo, <strong>and</strong> her<br />

film <strong>and</strong> television work includes Sausage Film <strong>and</strong> Two Melons <strong>and</strong><br />

a Stinking Fish.<br />

GARY LUTZ is the author <strong>of</strong> Stories in the Worst Way (Knopf, 1996).<br />

He is the recipient <strong>of</strong> grants from the National Endowment for the<br />

<strong>Art</strong>s <strong>and</strong> the Foundation for Contemporary Performance <strong>Art</strong>s.<br />

PAUL MALISZEWSKI'S writing has recently appeared in Pushcart<br />

Prize XXV, Conjunctions, The Antioch Review, McSweeney's, <strong>and</strong><br />

elsewhere.<br />

BEN MARCUS is the fiction editor <strong>of</strong> Fence <strong>and</strong> the author <strong>of</strong><br />

The Age <strong>of</strong> Wire <strong>and</strong> String. Recent fiction <strong>of</strong> his has appeared in<br />

McSweeney's, Tin House, Conjunctions, the Pushcart Prize anthology,<br />

Parkett <strong>and</strong> Frieze. Harpers will publish a story <strong>of</strong> his this summer.<br />

J.D. MCCLATCHY is the author <strong>of</strong> four books <strong>of</strong> poems: Scenes from<br />

Another Life (1981), Stars Principal (1986), The Rest <strong>of</strong> the Way


240<br />

(1990) <strong>and</strong> Ten Comm<strong>and</strong>ments (1998). His literary essays are<br />

collected in White Paper (1989) <strong>and</strong> Twenty Questions (1998). He<br />

has edited a number <strong>of</strong> books, including The Vintage Book <strong>of</strong><br />

Contemporary American Poetry (1990) <strong>and</strong> The Vintage Book <strong>of</strong><br />

Contemporary World Poetry (1996). He has written four opera libretti,<br />

most recently Emmeline for Tobias Picker, commissioned by the<br />

Santa Fe Opera. He is a Chancellor <strong>of</strong> the Academy <strong>of</strong> American<br />

Poets, <strong>and</strong> since 1991 has been editor <strong>of</strong> The Yale Review.<br />

ELIZABETH MCCRACKEN is the author <strong>of</strong> the novel The Giant's House<br />

<strong>and</strong> the collection <strong>of</strong> stories, Here's Your Hat, What's Your Hurry!<br />

Her next novel, Niagara Falls All Over Again, will be out in August.<br />

SHIRIN NESHAT was born in 1957 in Qazvin, Iran. A recent<br />

recipient <strong>of</strong> the Prize for Best Project from ARCO in Madrid, she is<br />

currently a Visiting <strong>Art</strong>ist at Skowhegan in Maine. She has<br />

exhibited in the last two years at the Irish Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> in Dublin,<br />

at the Barbara Gladstone Gallery in New York, <strong>and</strong> at the<br />

Kanazawa Contemporary <strong>Art</strong> Museum in Japan.<br />

D. NURKSE'S latest books are LeavingXaia (2000) <strong>and</strong> The Rules <strong>of</strong><br />

Paradise (Fall 2001), both from Four Way Books. In 2000 he<br />

received awards from the Tanne Foundation <strong>and</strong> the <strong>Art</strong>ist's Fund<br />

(NYFA).<br />

ERIC OZAWA was born in Tokyo. He divides his time between New<br />

York City <strong>and</strong> Moorestown.<br />

LINDA PASTAN'S tenth book, Carnival Evening: New <strong>and</strong> Selected<br />

Poems 1968-1998, was a finalist for the National Book Award. Her<br />

eleventh book, The Last Uncle, is due from Norton in 2002.<br />

JACK PIERSON was born in Plymouth, Massachusetts <strong>and</strong> studied<br />

at the College <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> in Boston. He has had solo exhibitions at<br />

Simon Watson, New York; Pat Hearn Gallery, New York; Richard<br />

Kohnenschmidt Gallery, Los Angeles; Fine <strong>Art</strong>s Work Center<br />

Provincetown, Massachusetts. His work has appeared in group exhi-<br />

bitions at Tom Cugliani, New York; Guggenheim Museum SOHO;<br />

Whitney Museum <strong>of</strong> American <strong>Art</strong>. He lives <strong>and</strong> works in New<br />

York <strong>and</strong> Provincetown.<br />

DAVID PLANTE received a B.A. from Boston College. He is the<br />

author <strong>of</strong> the novels The Ghost <strong>of</strong> Henry James, The Family<br />

(nominated for the National Book Award), The Woods, The Country,<br />

The Foreigner, The Native, The Accident, Annunciation, <strong>and</strong> The Age<br />

<strong>of</strong> Terror. He is a regular contributor to The New Yorker <strong>and</strong> a<br />

reviewer <strong>and</strong> features writer for The New York Times Book Review.<br />

He is the recipient <strong>of</strong> awards from the American Academy <strong>and</strong> Institute<br />

<strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>s <strong>and</strong> Letters, the Guggenheim Foundation, <strong>and</strong> the<br />

British <strong>Art</strong>s Council Bursary. He has been writer in residence at<br />

the Gorki Institute <strong>of</strong> <strong>Literature</strong> (Moscow), L'Universite du Quebec<br />

a Montreal, Adelphi University, King's College, Tulsa University,<br />

<strong>and</strong> the University <strong>of</strong> East Anglia.<br />

JOSHUA POTEAT lives in Richmond, Virginia.<br />

R. FLOWERS RIVERA is an assistant pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> English at Northern<br />

Virginia Community College, Alex<strong>and</strong>ria. A Mississippi native,<br />

she has a Ph.D. in African American literature <strong>and</strong> creative writing<br />

from Binghamton University. Her short story, "The Iron Bars,"<br />

won the 1999 Peregrine Prize. Her work has been accepted for publication<br />

in journals such as Beloit Poetry <strong>Journal</strong>, Confluence,<br />

Evergreen Chronicles, Obsidian III, The Southern Review <strong>and</strong> Xavier<br />

Review. View more <strong>of</strong> her work by visiting http://www.promethea.com.<br />

PHILIP RYAN lives in Brooklyn. He has had fiction published in<br />

JANE <strong>and</strong> McSweeney's.<br />

TOM SACHS was born in New York, <strong>and</strong> educated at Bennington<br />

College in Vermont <strong>and</strong> the Architectural Association in London,<br />

from whom he received the Architectural Association Furniture<br />

Prize. He has exhibited recently at the A/D Gallery in New York,<br />

<strong>and</strong> his work is included in the public collections <strong>of</strong> the Jewish<br />

Museum <strong>and</strong> <strong>of</strong> the Guggenheim.


242<br />

GEORGE SAUNDERS is the author <strong>of</strong> two short story collections,<br />

Pastoralia <strong>and</strong> CivilWarL<strong>and</strong> in Bad Decline, a finalist for the 1996<br />

PEN/Hemingway Award. His latest book, The Very Persistent<br />

Gappers <strong>of</strong> Frip, was illustrated by Lane Smith. His work has<br />

received two National Magazine Awards <strong>and</strong> four times been<br />

included in O. Henry Awards collections. He teaches creative<br />

writing at Syracuse University.<br />

JASON SCHNEIDERMAN received Bachelors Degrees in English <strong>and</strong><br />

Russian from the University <strong>of</strong> Maryl<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> is an M.EA. c<strong>and</strong>idate<br />

at New York University. He was born in Texas.<br />

JEANIE SERVAAS was born <strong>and</strong> raised in Michigan. She is currently<br />

an M.EA. c<strong>and</strong>idate in graphic design at Yale.<br />

LAURIE SHECK'S new book, Black Series, will be published by<br />

Knopf in November. She currently teaches at Princeton University<br />

<strong>and</strong> in the M.EA. Program at the New School. She lives in New<br />

York City.<br />

RICHARD ST. GERMAIN lives in Providence, Rhode Isl<strong>and</strong> with his<br />

wife Emma <strong>and</strong> works as a cook. He was published initially in The<br />

Quarterly, edited by Gordon Lish, <strong>and</strong> has a story coming out in<br />

Salt Hill Spring 2001.<br />

JOHN SUROWIECKI works as a freelance writer in the Hartford area<br />

<strong>and</strong> has recently returned to writing poetry. His work has recently<br />

appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Mesa Review, Cumberl<strong>and</strong><br />

Review, Kimera, The Literary Review Web, The MacGuffin, Nimrod<br />

<strong>and</strong> Prairie Schooner. A chapbook, The Caliban Poems, will be<br />

published this spring in Chicago.<br />

KARA WALKER was born in Stockton, California <strong>and</strong> educated at<br />

Atlanta College <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> <strong>and</strong> Rhode Isl<strong>and</strong> School <strong>of</strong> Design. She has<br />

had solo shows at Brent Sikkema Gallery NYC, The Tel Aviv Museum<br />

<strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, <strong>and</strong> San Francisco Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>. She is the recipient<br />

<strong>of</strong> grants from <strong>Art</strong> Matters Inc. <strong>and</strong> the John D. <strong>and</strong> Catherine T.<br />

Mac<strong>Art</strong>hur Foundation. She lives <strong>and</strong> works in Rhode Isl<strong>and</strong>.<br />

REETIKA VAZIRANI'S second book, World Hotel, will be released by<br />

Copper Canyon in 2002. She is the author <strong>of</strong> White Elephants<br />

(Beacon, 1996). She was the Banister Writer-in-Residence at Sweet<br />

Briar College for the past three years <strong>and</strong> has recently moved to<br />

New Jersey. She is a contributor to the anthology, How We Live Our<br />

Yoga (Beacon, 2001), <strong>and</strong> a Contributing Editor <strong>of</strong> Callaloo.

Hooray! Your file is uploaded and ready to be published.

Saved successfully!

Ooh no, something went wrong!