Adelaide Literary Magazine No.12, April 2018

Revista Adelaide

concern is that now Sylvia is constantly on call to First the Colonel seemed to be a character of con-
dote on her mother as Harold had done for so tradicƟons. He was charming and personable one
many years. There is also another issue. Basil moment and could cut you to threads the next.
desperately wishes to be a father and Sylvia will He was highly intelligent, aƩended the best
have no part of it. None of this maƩers and schools, came from a long stock of Labor Party
please don’t judge me as this was a mutually ben- officials and yet, he oŌen took to extreme posi-
eficial encounter. I helped Basil by listening to his Ɵons on issues that did not pass the logic test.
tale of woe and I was able to find a domineering, The Colonel had more enemies than friends,
selfish, piƟful character in Harriet. mostly do to his stubbornness and arrogance.
Even his own party Ɵred of him, but he was toler-
As I stepped off the bar stool, I looked over at my ated because of his keen intelligence and organi-
gentlemen friend again only to discover that he zaƟon skills. He thought of himself as a born com-
was starring right at me. He called over to me mander and had no toleraƟon for jusƟficaƟons or
apologeƟcally, “I didn’t mean to ignore you, but I raƟonals for why another approach may make
wasn’t sure that it was you.” Apparently he did more sense.
recognize me, but I sƟll had no recollecƟon. Sens-
ing my awkwardness, he reintroduced himself as I would try to simplify the Colonel as a person by
Bill Clausen and immediately it came back that he saying that he was just an asshole, but he wasn’t.
was one of the dads on my son’s soccer team Despite an autocraƟc personality and manage-
many years ago. It should come as no surprise ment style, he was known for spontaneous acts of
that he disappeared from my memory banks as I kindness that would go beyond what was ex-
never parƟcularly liked the man. He tended to be pected. Furthermore, as a man of means, he was
a bit hard on the boys and had an arrogant man- very generous to chariƟes and well intenƟoned
ner which, at least to me, was off puƫng. It movements that did not always reconcile with his
would have been awkward to turn down his invi- posiƟon on the poliƟcal spectrum.
taƟon for a drink, so I pulled a chair next to his.
Dr. Clausen reminisced about the first Ɵme that
It turns out that it is Dr. William Clausen. We had the Colonel came to his office. He had me picture
a slight chuckle as he referred to himself as Dr. this austere BriƟsh noblemen, dressed in a dark
Bill. It turns out that he is a psychiatrist and has suite with a walking sƟck. “I had to say I was
been enjoying a very lucraƟve pracƟce. Needless somewhat taken back as he looked like something
to say, Dr. Bill did almost all of the talking and, as I out of the late 1800’s,” Dr. Clausen reflected. “He
was already tapped out for the evening on new came into my office and looked me up and down
character development, I found my eyes glazing as if he were trying to decide if I was worthy to be
over. of counsel to him. When I asked him to sit down
he looked at the chair as if he were thinking of
But then Dr. Clausen started to tell me about one dusƟng it off and then thought beƩer of it.”
of his paƟents and that perked up my ears. He
had been seeing a lord from the House of Lords in Once situated, the Colonel spoke first and said, “I
England. I thought that perhaps he was violaƟng am quite certain that once we finish up today you
paƟent privacy, but he assured me that plenty of will be confident that I will need no further follow
lords see psychiatrists in the US and I would be up.”
hard put to idenƟfy this parƟcular one. He sug-
gested that, as an author, I may want to write a Dr. Clausen ignored this comment and went
story about his paƟent, “properly protecƟng the about asking him the standard introductory ques-
crazy,” he chuckled. Dr. Clausen did not strike me Ɵons.
as being very professional, but I must admit that
the prospect of a good tale had me listening. “What is your age, Colonel?”

Dr. Clausen started out by reviewing the qualiƟes “FiŌy-seven.”
that made this lord who he was. We agreed that
the Colonel was a good pseudonym so in telling “Married?”
the story Clausen henceforward referred to him
as such. “Divorced”

“How long have you been divorced?”

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“Eight years.” “I am quite certain of it,” replied the Colonel in
his abrupt inpaƟent manner.
“Children?”
“So you know that you are responsible for
“One son and a daughter.” someone’s murder,” replied the doctor with a
switch in emphasis.
The Colonel never elaborated on any of his an-
swers preferring to divulge very liƩle, so Clausen, “Yes, I know that I have caused this person to
aŌer a short pause, tried another more open end- die.”
ed quesƟon.
“Well, that is not the same as murder. Did you
“If I may ask, Colonel, where did you hear about physically murder this person yourself or cause
me?” someone else to do it?”, inquired Dr. Clausen.

“I read several of your arƟcles many years ago,” “It is more complicated than that”, responded the
said the Colonel, opening up ever so slightly. “At Colonel. “Let me start from the beginning.”
the Ɵme I was very interested in psychology and
wanted to learn more about how the mind “Doctor, have you ever had the experience where
worked. I found your insights to be very inter- you think of someone that you haven’t seen in
esƟng and, when your name came up recently, I years, perhaps decades, and then the very next
decided that I should arrange to see you.” day you run into that person?”

Sensing that it was Ɵme to get beyond the formal- “Yes everyone has that experience from Ɵme to
iƟes, the doctor looked at the Colonel and said, Ɵme.”
“So what can I do for you?”
The colonel went on to explain how it had hap-
The Colonel inquired about paƟent confidenƟality pened to him. He thought of someone that he
and wanted to be sure that any discussions that had not seen in years and then the very next day
took place would go no further than the room. he ran into him. Dr. Clausen explained that such
“AŌer all,” the Colonel explained, “I have many situaƟons are common and can easily be ex-
important duƟes back home and a reputaƟon to plained away by coincidence.
uphold.”
The colonel retorted that it did not just happen
Dr. Clausen assured him that he may speak freely once, but happened again several days later with
and know that whatever he says, short of a court another individual. This Ɵme the Colonel was
order, will be kept in confidence. Dr. Clausen thinking about this person in the context of an
went on to explain that he has heard almost eve- automobile and the very next day he read in the
rything and speaking to someone in a safe envi- paper that the unfortunate vicƟm was in a serious
ronment is the first step toward a cure. accident and listed as criƟcal.

The Colonel paused and looked down at his feet. The Colonel went on to list a total of ten separate
He fidgeted with his fingers, adjusted his neck Ɵe, incidents that had taken place over the last three
and moved his walking sƟck as if it were about to years, none of which, in the opinion of the Colo-
fall. “Very well,” he said, “I suppose it is best to nel, could be explained away as coincidence.
just blurt it out and have it over. I have reason to
believe that I am responsible for someone’s mur- It was number ten that was the most troubling
der.” because, in this case, the Colonel thought of this
person as being dead and the very next day the
Dr. Clausen waited applying a technique of allow- unfortunate vicƟm was murdered.
ing a pause to run its course. OŌen a paƟent will
have more to say. The Colonel was clearly waiƟng Dr. Clausen reflected for a moment and said,
for a reacƟon, so the good doctor simply fed back “Surely you can’t think that you played a roll in
a paraphrased version of the Colonel’s phrase. this person’s murder?”.

“So, you believe that you are responsible for The Colonel replied, “Well you’re the brain ex-
someone’s murder.” pert, you explain it.”

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Dr. Clausen looked at me and said, “I tell you, I trillion odds? As strange as it may sound, Colonel,
couldn’t help, but wonder how something like given how many people play the loƩery over
this could happen, presuming, of course, that my Ɵme, mulƟple winners will occur occasionally.
paƟent’s report was accurate. I thought for a Furthermore given how many people there are in
moment and decided to put psychiatry aside and the world, it should not appear unusual that some
look at the problem mathemaƟcally.“ will have significantly more uncanny experiences
such as you have described. Colonel you are a
“Colonel, I believe that you were correct earlier staƟsƟcal aberraƟon and you can put aside your
when you said that there will be no need for a guilt.”
follow up,” offered Dr. Clausen. “You see, I am
certain that you had no part in the murder of this The Colonel had a rare moment of speechless-
vicƟm. As a pracƟƟoner in the medical sciences, I ness, but then slowly replied as he starred directly
am bound to follow the scienƟfic principle and in at the doctor, “Dr. Clausen, what if I were to tell
doing such I cannot even entertain the noƟon you that I had an eleventh incident involving
that someone can be murdered by thinking about you?”
them.”
“I suddenly started to perspire and I could feel a
The Colonel explained how he did not consciously well of fear start to permeate my body,” Dr.
think of any of these people and he was only re- Clausen explained to me. “It was creepy and in-
minded that he had been thinking of them when tellectually I knew that my feelings were foolish,
he saw the incident play out a day later. The doc- but that didn’t make them any less real”.
tor waived him off and nodding his head assured
the Colonel that he understood the difference “What sort of incident?,” inquired the doctor try-
between conscious and unconscious thought. Dr ing not to show fear in his voice.
Clausen then went on to explain that most of us
think of people all the Ɵme, nothing happens “It was the eleventh incident that made me want
most of the Ɵme, and we therefore never remem- to see you in person. You see, Dr. Clausen, I saw
ber that we even thought of them. So when your death as well.”
there is an incident it will stand out as something
unusual, but when compared with how many “Well, I would tell you the same as I did earlier”,
Ɵmes we think of someone and nothing happens, the doctor replied with less confidence. “It is
it is easy to see it as a coincidence. nothing more than a staƟsƟcal aberraƟon and
you can be assured that I plan on living many
The Colonel conceded that may explain the occa- more years. No, Colonel , please go back to your
sional follow up incident, but he asked how that wonderful country with a clear conscience. Think
explains ten incidents over three years with in- of this incident as a great experience to share, but
creased complexity in how the follow up incident don’t place any credence on any of it.”
occurs.
“Surprisingly, the Colonel appeared genuinely
“Do you believe that you have special telepathic pleased,” said the doctor as he conƟnued his sto-
powers?” asked Dr. Clausen. ry. “He wanted to see me because of the elev-
enth incident and when I merely categorized it
“No, because I had no control over these with the others without regard to my demise, he
thoughts,” answered the Colonel. was convinced that my advice was sound. Thank-
fully, he had no idea about what I was really
“Precisely”, replied Dr. Clausen. “It is my scienƟfic thinking.”
opinion that no one has such power regardless of
what you hear about some people having the Suddenly the doctor looked at his watch and
ability to predict the future. If they did they could looked at me. “How about another round of
get rich playing the loƩery. And speaking of the drinks?”, he asked.
loƩery did you know that there have been cases
where someone has won the loƩery more than “No”, I replied, “I really do need to reƟre.”
once? Do you think that they have special luck or
did they just get lucky by beaƟng the one in five “But you don’t understand,” said the doctor. “I
suddenly feel the best that I have felt in months.

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Adelaide Magazine

It has been horrid ever since he told me about the About the Author:
eleventh incident. I have been thinking non stop
about death. I even started smoking again and, Bruce A. Heap is an aspiring author living in up-
to make maƩers worse, I have felt like a fraud for state NY with his wife and dog. He received a BA
not heeding my own advice, but you have helped in MathemaƟcs from the State University of NY at
me immensely by simply listening.” Geneso and an MS in Computer Science from
Union College. AŌer a career as an Educator and
“I am glad to be of service, but I really do need to a Computer Consultant, Bruce has turned to
reƟre,” I stated while faking a slight yawn. wriƟng and hiking, in either order, together or
separate.
“I posiƟvely must do something for you. What if I
were to purchase your book?”

“It really isn’t necessary,” I assured him.

“But there must be something,” he protested.

I had started to like Dr. Clausen more than I
thought I would. Exposing his vulnerabiliƟes,
made him more human in my eyes. I was also
convinced that he was a beƩer than average ther-
apist.

“Well actually there is something that you could
do for me,” I said as I thought about another role
reversal that had occurred earlier in the evening.

“Go sit at the bar, order a drink, ask Basil about
his mother in law, listen aƩenƟvely, and see if you
can set him and his wife on the right path. While
you’re doing that I am going to reƟre and think
about my next story.”

As I walked back to my room I thought that per-
haps the Colonel character should not be di-
vorced. He should be married to my character
version of Basil’s mother in law. That would make
the story so much more interesƟng.

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THE MIRACLE
OF ESTELLE

by Joram PiaƟgorsky

For the third Ɵme in a row Benjamin didn’t have a “My legs are cold today,” Estelle conƟnued, ignor-
single matching pair in the cards he held in his ing Benjamin’s comment and straightening her
hands. His frustraƟon doubled when Estelle back in the wheel chair. She was paralyzed from
flashed her triumphant smile announcing. “Gin!” the waist down and extremely sensiƟve to tem-
perature changes ever since the onset of a
“It’s not all luck, you know,” she said in a self- baffling nerve degeneraƟve disease three years
saƟsfied way that rubbed Benjamin the wrong ago. She had moved from Chicago to Bethesda to
way. receive medical treatment by a well-known neu-
rologist at the NaƟonal InsƟtutes of Health. None
Every Wednesday night, Benjamin accompanied of her doctors knew if and when this mysterious
Melinda, his wife of forty-two years, when she ailment would stop progressing.
visited “poor crippled Estelle.” Melinda was more
charitable than he was, always willing to help Benjamin asked Estelle about her illness as she
those in need, which is one of traits he loved dealt another round of cards. “It’s God’s will,” she
about her. But, no maƩer how needy Estelle was, said, with an astonishing lack of anger that she
he was irritated watching precious Ɵme escape as expressed for other subjects.
he played gin rummy with ungrateful and annoy-
ing Estelle rather than aƩend to his unfinished “Have courage, Estelle. Maybe Dr. Jensen can
work. The scienƟfic manuscript of his postdoctor- help you,” said Melinda.
al student needed revision, he hadn’t prepared
his upcoming lecture at Harvard, and his never- It’s not God’s will, thought Benjamin. It’s got
ending list of administraƟve duƟes for nothing to do with God. It’s geneƟc or viral or
Georgetown University weighed heavily on him. maybe something else here on solid earth.

“Larry didn’t come to see me again this week, as if Although Melinda spoke kindly to Estelle, Benja-
he’s too busy to have lunch with his sick mother,” min wondered what she was really thinking. Two
Estelle whined, “and my TV flickers so much I hours ago before coming to play cards that even-
can’t even see Oprah without geƫng seasick. The ing, Melinda had said, “Here we go again, dear. It
repairman won’t come for another week. I’m al- does get Ɵring, doesn’t it?”
ways last on the list.”
Once again, he had suppressed asking why they
“Come on, Estelle,” said Benjamin. “Give it a had to keep going to Estelle’s every Wednesday
rest.” night, like robots. Instead he asked, “How do you
think God will reward us for our ‘Estelle mitz-
Melinda shot him a disapproving glance. vahs’?”

Shit, thought Benjamin. I can’t win. “Perhaps by a surprise or two, who knows?”

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Melinda had learned to side step his sarcasm. point. LN + PDU were printed in pencil under-
Also, the Jewish New Year was in two days, which neath the heart. He speculated these as iniƟals of
pacified her. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur imaginary people Lynn Nussbaum + Peter Denon
were the only religious observances that Benja- Ukevitch? Why not, thought. Everything we hear
min shared with her. He claimed he was a High in Temple is imaginary. Then he wondered wheth-
Holy Day specialist. er ‘Lynn’ or ‘Peter’ made the scratches, and
whether they really loved each other, or maybe
Estelle looked more in her late sixƟes than her someone just imagined phantom people like he
fiŌy-two years. She had aged overnight when her did to entertain the old guys, like him, doing their
husband abandoned her a few months aŌer she duty on Rosh Hashanah.
lost the use of her legs. He had claimed it had
nothing to do with her disease, but Melinda did- “Look, young lovers,” he whispered to Melinda as
n’t believe that. Gray roots bridged Estelle’s white he pointed to the heart.
scalp to thinning, dyed brown hair, her one effort
to appear presentable. Since her sickness, she’d “Shhh. Not so loud.” She abruptly turned the
neglected caring for home or body. Her clothes page of her prayer book and he got the message.
were oŌen stained and her shoes dirty; scaƩered
objects, old newspapers and unwashed dishes lay “Rise as the Arc is opened,” commanded the new
around her small apartment. She had gained at rabbi, who had just replaced Rabbi Magnum on
least twenty pounds on her short thick body since his reƟrement. Young Rabbi Fraenkel was the
she had joined the temple six months ago. Her future: the changing of the guards to conƟnue the
pudgy face lacked expression, even when com- never-ending cycle that kept treading back on
plaining, and her Ɵresome monotone triggered a itself.
defensive reacƟon in Benjamin. However, he
fought his insƟnct to strike back, not always suc- “Please be seated,” the rabbi said aŌer the Arc
cessfully, since he knew she had not aƩacked him was closed.
personally. He was doing this principally for
Melinda. “All rise and turn to page 93 in your prayer book.
Let us read responsively,” said the rabbi a liƩle
Benjamin did have a forgiving nature. He saw Es- later.
telle’s fingernails coated with dull red, peeling
polish as worn weapons that had lost their threat, O Lord, You have been our refuge
unlike claws of a predator, calming his desire to
snipe at her. It was not what she said or her ap- From generaƟon to generaƟon.
pearance that irked him most, but rather it was
her certainty about everything. Always the aca- The rabbi moƟoned for the congregants to be
demic scienƟst, he rebelled against opinions stat- seated again.
ed as facts or beliefs not supported by evidence.
Up and down, up and down, won’t need to go to
Benjamin walked into temple the following Friday the gym today, thought Benjamin. A trickle of
morning clutching his prayer book but thinking sweat slid down his cheek. He wiped off the per-
about the lecture he was missing at the university spiraƟon with his fingers and rubbed his eye with
on stem cells. “Nice day,” he said to Melinda, his knuckle. The September heat was oppressive
then gazed at the cloudless blue sky. in Bethesda.

“Yes,” she answered as she passed the entrance PracƟcing his speed-reading skills Benjamin
of the temple. skimmed forward in his prayer book, blocking out
the background voice of the rabbi.
As the Rosh Hashanah service started and the
empty seats disappeared, he noƟced a thin diago- The Lord is King, The Lord was King,
nal scratch in the back of the polished pew before
him. He leaned forward to see a Ɵny heart at its The Lord shall be King throughout all Ɵme.
base etched into the wood from the same sharp
He was baffled why so many smart people repeat-
ed such nonsense over and over. If they meant
the King is Nature, why didn’t they say so? If they

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meant there is a supernatural force out there European/non-observant Jewish refugee raised in
protecƟng people or direcƟng events…well…how a peaceful country. He felt no more a ritualisƟc
could anyone really believe that? He quesƟoned Jew clinging to past tradiƟons than he a felt a
for the umpteenth Ɵme what he was doing here, target of Jewish persecuƟon and Nazi extermina-
and then reminded himself of Melinda’s devoƟon Ɵon. Singing itself was difficult for him personally
and his vows so many years ago “…in sickness and as well. His father was a musician, but Benjamin
in health, unƟl death do us part.” was tone-deaf and self-conscious when he sang.
He imagined himself a deficient mutant when
His leg touched hers and she smiled. singing among others. His lips aƩempted to form
words without sound for the rest of the song.
“Please rise.”
Benjamin, bored, started thinking about Estelle.
Up again. Benjamin noƟced strangers of all ages He assumed that she was at the service and won-
studying their books, standing as instructed, like dered who brought her to the temple or where
soldiers, except for the girl in the stroller next to she was siƫng. He hoped Melinda wouldn’t ask
her young parents. Benjamin looked down at his her to join them for lunch aŌer the sermon, a
feet and wiggled his toes. Obedient liƩle fellows, tradiƟon he had with her every year. Also, he did-
he told himself, feeling disconnected from his n’t want to be stuck with Estelle that aŌernoon.
body. I guess we all do what we’re told, he He was looking forward to catching up on his
thought, becoming strangely angry at his toes. work. He scanned the crowd looking for her didn’t
see her anywhere. The wheelchair should have
His mood mellowed as the congregants’ joined been easy to spot.
the Cantor’s deep voice in song and he saw
Melinda swaying with the tune. The age-old melo- “Where’s Estelle?” he asked Melinda.
dies had become familiar over the years that he
had aƩended Rosh Hashanah services with She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Melinda and were separate in his mind from the
mechanical religious observances. It was as if the Benjamin’s aƩenƟon was diverted to the Cantor
music and prayers, although under the same roof, starƟng his journey up the aisle carrying the To-
had liƩle to do with one another. rah. Many congregants shuffled along their rows
in his direcƟon. A gray-haired man eager to reach
Benjamin tried to sing along with Melinda and the the Torah maneuvered across Benjamin and
rest of the congregaƟon but couldn’t maintain the Melinda’s row to reach the aisle. The end of his
melody for more than a few moments, adding to tallit, tassels dangling, was clutched in his finger-
his frustraƟon at the service. He had difficulty Ɵps and his arm extended towards the on-coming
pronouncing and didn’t know the meaning of the Torah. A changing flux of hands holding either
Hebrew words, which oŌen made him feel as an prayer books or edges of tallits danced around
outsider, instead of imagining, as he usually did, the ancient Torah as it proceeded down the aisle.
that the others were chained within. It was as if Golden rings, jeweled bracelets and cuff links
he had not earned entrance into the privileged screamed opulence while the act begged humili-
inner sanctum of Jews, or that birthright was in- ty. No icons allowed, said the Jews. Yet, Benjamin
sufficient to join this holy seƫng. Yet, he didn’t saw them Ɵed to ritual and the Torah. Were those
feel rejected either. Rather, he felt that he had an not icons of a kind?
illicit membership to an exclusive club.
The books and tallits touched the Torah, ever so
A sense of estrangement was not new to Benja- lightly, so lovingly, so reverently, and quickly re-
min. He was the first American ciƟzen of his fami- ceded to the lips of their owners for spiritual
ly, having been born in New York a few months nourishment, a taste of honey.
aŌer his French mother and Russian father emi-
grated from France just in Ɵme to escape Hitler. Benjamin recoiled from the programmed bonding
His parents neither sent him to Hebrew school between Torah and Jew. He found the subservi-
nor aƩended services themselves as he grew up ence as unpalatable as the evangelists on televi-
assimilaƟng new customs in a foreign land sion Sunday mornings praising Jesus Christ. Save
that they now called home. He was an American/ for the rare scholar, why kiss a book or cloth aŌer

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it touched a scroll that he had neither read nor holy by contact with the Torah, or that he was an
understood? Why use lips; why kiss? It has noth- Atheist, with a capital A? He was there, willingly,
ing to do with the passion of lovers with moist wearing his talllit and yarmulke. Doesn’t the uni-
lips, open, or with lips nuzzling on an infant’s form define the person? Wouldn’t a person cam-
neck, or even with the social masquerade of lips ouflaged in a white sheet and sporƟng a pointed
smacking air as cheeks brushed past each other. hat listening to the Grand Wizard be branded a
To Benjamin, this Jewish kiss meant, “I’ll obey, I’m member of the Ku Klux Klan whatever his private
yours,” less like the fearful kissing of the Godfa- beliefs? Do thoughts trump acƟons? No. The
ther’s ring than the obsequious kissing of the messy informal appearance of a research scien-
Pope’s. He would have preferred to touch the Ɵst, like himself, was part of that person. He
silver case of the Torah with his fingers. But, it was there all right. With Melinda. If a modern day
was so distant, he thought, to touch but not to Gestapo invaded the temple at that very moment
feel, so unsaƟsfying, like the near contact of a he would be incarcerated with her and the oth-
gentleman’s lips meeƟng a lady’s hand. ers.

He could not bring himself to extend his arm, to He re-centered his light brown yarmulke (leŌ over
tap the Torah and touch his lips. Apart from the from the Bar-Mitzvah of Danny Shapiro, a friend
hypocrisy for him, it was an ostentaƟous perfor- of his daughter) and re-arranged his white and
mance, like yelling “Bravo!” at a concert, to stand blue tallit to cover the full expanse of his shoul-
out as a connoisseur, a true music lover, one who ders, which sagged a bit with advancing years. He
belongs, yet plays no instrument and cannot sing gazed at the Cantor walking along the aisle at the
in tune. He looked at the other congregants far leŌ of the chapel heading back to the bi-
touching and kissing, avoiding each other’s eyes ma. Few remained around the Torah, a touch
to make it all more sincere. The bowing, the here, a tap there, kiss, kiss, the bees quieƟng as
swaying, the yarmulke and tallit, the reaching to the hive prepared for the next phase.
touch the Torah in a mass frenzy – all distasteful
public displays and badges of belonging – thought Various members of the congregaƟon went to the
Benjamin. Was all that necessary? bima to read their assigned words of Hebrew, a
plea was made to buy Israel bonds, more chants,
What about the others, like himself, who were up, down, yawns, the chapel door opened, closed
born members of the so-called Chosen People with congregants taking breaks to sip water from
(chosen by whom?), but chose to look forward, the fountain or relieve themselves or maybe just
not backward, and seƩled with being a member chat with a friend and express condolences for a
of the human race, despite their flaws, the prod- sick family member, or congratulaƟons for a pro-
uct of eons of evoluƟon, rather than being con- moƟon, whatever, and then back to the sanctu-
fined to an encapsulated group, special, claiming ary, the rituals, the service that put all lives on
a singular privilege to misery? Every year it was hold for the day, playing guiltless hooky from
the same: he watched, a peeping Tom, a Jewish work, with pride and comfort and sense of com-
peeping Tom, watching Jews. munity. It was their tribe, aŌer all, for centuries,
and it was Rosh Hashanah.
But then other nagging quesƟons raƩled around
in Benjamin’s mind and confused him. Am I par- Happy New Year! Last year was wonderful, a
ƟcipaƟng in earnest? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m al- blessing. Touch wood; touch again. Next year in
ways here on Rosh Hashanah. I’m a Jew with a Jerusalem! Maybe next year all our dreams will
Jewish wife celebraƟng the New Year with other come true. Maybe. Maybe.
Jews. Don’t people need family? Don’t I? I am a
product of history as everyone else here. He re- Benjamin pondered what thoughts filled the
sponded to the songs, rose to the call, read, on minds of the other congregants at this very in-
cue, that God is one, all-powerful, benevolent, stant. His six foot, four inch frame allowed him to
never to be doubted, always to be honored. Did it see over the heads in front of him (except for one
really maƩer that he did not believe the voice of very ugly purple hat that blocked his view) and it
certainty in the prayer book, or that his hand was all looked ordinary, a group of people observing
not among those seeking the Torah, or that his the Jewish New Year, as expected of them. His
lips were not brushing against the object made

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Revista Adelaide

thoughts turned more scienƟfic and he wondered “The choir, I think.”
how many of the strangers in this holy chamber
would be dead next year, how many malignant Benjamin scruƟnized each person within the choir
tumors were in the room, how much anxiety, how standing at the front of the chapel. No lips were
many would hear devastaƟng news within the moving, yet the spellbinding voice. He searched
week about their health, or their jobs, or their the congregants for the woman who sang, but
children (God forbid). Then he gave himself a found none. Again he examined the choir careful-
break and wondered how many orgasms would ly, and then he noƟced a space between two
they generate today, and how many concepƟons, women standing in the second row. A metallic
wanted and unwanted, occurred last night? flash caught his aƩenƟon. He squinted and
thought he may have idenƟfied the source of the
This scene may have appeared commonplace, but voice. He shiŌed in his seat trying to see her more
so do tragedy and ecstasy from afar. A room full clearly.
of people is high drama, he thought, the stuff of
literature and life, just noƟce, think, imagine. His Estelle! Yes, he was sure now. She was trapped in
thoughts returned to the contradicƟons of au- her wheelchair as usual. Her eyes were shut and
thenƟcity: was it mind or body, beliefs or acƟons? except for her lips, she was perfectly sƟll. Oh my,
Could he be religious and not religious at the Estelle! Benjamin wondered whether she plucked
same Ɵme? Who wins the baƩle of compeƟng the notes out of the heavens and blew them gen-
truths? tly to the audience. This was not Estelle’s gin-
rummy voice Benjamin heard on Wednesday
And then Benjamin heard a human voice that put nights.
aside his Ɵresome conflicts. It had a wondrous
quality, like the first chirp of a bird at dawn. The The older couple in front of him stopped whisper-
tapestry of suits, dresses, jewelry, hair shades, ing to each other. The rabbi stopped fiddling with
scarves, the background of people that had dis- his tallit. Even the baby stopped fidgeƟng in the
tracted him, surrendered to the feminine melody stroller. The occasional coughs, the muffled
so fine that it sounded like a single violin string chaƩer, the turning of pages, the restlessness all
caressed by a bow containing a hair plucked from ceased. This voice was for listening, not joining or
the head of a child-angel. The voice was not pow- interrupƟng. It demanded no acƟon and claimed
erful or tutored like that of a soprano’s trained for no certainty; it was from another world where
opera, but free like air filling the sanctuary, enter- understanding came simply from being a part of
ing his body with every breath. it. Estelle was singing purely and beauƟfully. That
was all. The preaching of the rabbi, the chanƟng
Benjamin’s invisible shield melted. He glanced at of the cantor and the rituals of the congregants
Melinda beside him and took her hand in his. She seemed insignificant. Benjamin’s desire to prove
squeezed his fingers. He closed his eyes and imag- his idenƟty to himself or to anyone else dissolved.
ined the ebb and flow of Ɵdes in a calm sea where He imagined symphonies playing in the heads of
life originated. His face relaxed and the creases the deaf. And then as Estelle’s voice had permeat-
lining his forehead disappeared. The warmth of ed the sanctuary, it eased to its conclusion with-
that single voice made him shiver in the Septem- out fanfare.
ber heat. It didn’t maƩer anymore whether there
was a God that was good or powerful or existed A solemn hush lingered. There was no applause,
at all. With Benjamin’s hand in Melinda’s in his no bow. There would be no headline in tomor-
private dark space of closed eyes, there was no row’s newspaper: “Estelle Changes Lives: Jews
inner or outer group; that one human voice kid- Honor the New Year”. A lady in a wheelchair had
napped his conflicts. sung her song to a congregaƟon at Rosh Hasha-
nah. But Benjamin knew that he would carry this
Benjamin leaned close to Melinda and asked, sound with him when the sun set that evening.
“Who is singing?”
Rabbi Fraenkel broke the magic of the moment
“I don’t know,” she said. with a mundane sermon about the importance of
retaining Jewish roots through observance.
“Where is it coming from?”

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Adelaide Magazine

AŌer the service he saw Estelle being wheeled to Hashanah services to usher in the Jewish New
the lobby by her son Larry. She was criƟcizing him Year.
for pushing the wheelchair recklessly. Benjamin
saw that her purple-red lipsƟck, too heavily ap- About the Author:
plied, spread unevenly beyond the boundaries of
her parched lips.

“Estelle,” said Melinda. “That was wonderful. I
had no idea…what a voice you have.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, amazing. I didn’t know. You
never said anything,” added Benjamin.

“Thanks,” she said. “God, it’s hot in here. Do they
think we’re made of plasƟc or something?”

She laughed coarsely, as usual, starring straight During his 50-year career at the NaƟonal InsƟ-
ahead with her deadpan bug-eyes. Her blue tutes of Health, Joram PiaƟgorsky has published
sweater was rumpled and her canvas shoes some 300 scienƟfic arƟcles and a book, Gene
stained. Her earrings were too small for her big Sharing and EvoluƟon (Harvard University Press,
ears, and she was wearing a gauche necklace with 2007), lectured worldwide, received numerous
large blue, glass beads. research awards, including the presƟgious Helen
Keller Prize for vision research, served on scien-
Such a mess, thought Benjamin. She was as ob- Ɵfic editorial boards, advisory boards and funding
noxious as ever. Just seeing her in her wheelchair panels, and trained a generaƟon of scienƟsts.
made him shy away. That her divine voice had Presently an emeritus scienƟst, he collects Inuit
returned to some mysterious place within her art, is on the Board of Directors of The Writer’s
haunted him. Center in Bethesda, blogs (JoramP.com), and has
published a series of personal essays in the jour-
“Good singing,” said a passing congregant as he nal Lived Experience and a novel, Jellyfish Have
raced out the front door. “Happy New Year!” Eyes (IPBooks, 2014) and a memoir The Speed of
Dark (Adelaide Books, 2018). He has two sons,
“Yes,” said Larry to no one in parƟcular. “Good five grandchildren, and lives with his wife in Be-
singing.” thesda, Maryland. He can be contacted at jo-
[email protected].
Benjamin moved close to Melinda as they leŌ the
Temple. He removed his yarmulke and tallit; the
service was over, the New Year had officially be-
gun. Larry wheeled his mother out behind them.
Benjamin turned as bright sunrays filtered
through the leaves of a nearby tree and bright-
ened Estelle’s face. A slight breeze made shadows
dance on her cheeks. He took a step in her direc-
Ɵon and touched her arm.

“Thanks, Estelle. We’ll see you next Wednesday?”
he said.

He could not be sure, but hoped that the small
movement of Estelle’s lips was a smile.

“I guess,” she said. “Wednesday.”

Melinda took Benjamin’s arm and they headed
together towards their favorite small Greek res-
taurant where they always ate lunch aŌer Rosh

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Adelaide Magazine

UNIFORMS

by Nancy Gendimenico

The summer between junior and senior years of knew school and saving money would be my way
high school, I worked at a state home for people out of Hazleton, even at age eight.
with special needs. My job came through a ‘70s
era government program that helped disadvan- I’d been babysiƫng since I was 13. At 16, I sold
taged teens. I did not want anyone to know my lingerie at a department store downtown and did
family was barely making ends meet. But it was typing and filing at a public school. Soon aŌer I
hard to hide this in our small town in Northeast- started working, my mother opened a passbook
ern Pennsylvania, an area once known for coal savings account for me. I loved seeing my balance
mining. The industry dried up in the ‘50s and ‘60s grow each Ɵme I made a deposit.
hiƫng Hazleton hard and the downturn cost my
father his job as a driller’s assistant. We moved to With my own money, I could go to the pool at
BalƟmore where he found work at Bethlehem Angela Park with friends, eat barbecue sandwich-
Steel. Three years later the plant closed. When es at our nightly hang out, the KnoƩy Pines, and
we returned to Hazleton, he was oŌen unem- buy my own clothes. Fiƫng in was key. I did not
ployed, and the year I began third grade my fa- want to look or act like the poor kid I really was.
ther had a nervous breakdown. AŌer that he was-
n’t the same. For the White Haven job, I had to wear a coƩon
candy pink and white polyester uniform. I associ-
The thought of caring for residents sicker than my ated pink with good memories, like the angel cos-
father was not my idea of a summer break. “Don’t tume I wore for a First Communion procession in
turn your nose up at the White Haven job,” my second grade. It also reminded me of pink garbed
mother said. “It’s only for two months.” We disa- cloistered nuns whose order I’d once aspired to
greed on everything, from my reading racy nov- join. To make the uniform acceptable to my taste,
els, like Couples and Valley of the Dolls, to the I hemmed it several inches above the knee, much
Weejun loafers and Shetland sweaters I’d to my mother’s consternaƟon. In my work ouƞit,
splurged on, to my diet of toast and plain ham- with white stockings and wedge soled shoes, I
burgers. But we agreed on one thing. It was good looked like a nurse or a waitress, the laƩer, I’d
to have money. discover to be lucraƟve during my college years,
thanks to the cash Ɵps. The only downside was
“Okay, I’ll take it,” I said, thinking about the long wearing another uniform because I hated being
stretch ahead. I hoped this would stop my mother told how to dress. Entering Hazleton High as a
from repeaƟng stories about her pressing shirts in freshman, I was glad to be rid of plaid skirts and
a broiling factory as a teenager. She dropped out white blouses, my uniform for nine years of paro-
of school because she had to help support eight chial school.
brothers and sisters aŌer her parents passed. My
five siblings and I were not expected to do the My daily transportaƟon to White Haven was on a
same because my mother believed in educaƟon. I yellow school bus. I remember the uncomfortable

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Revista Adelaide

18-mile ride, no springs in the seats, the only The White Haven paƟents were more animated.
scenery, green forest for long stretches on Route “They cling to me, they yell and get upset when I
80. Squirming the whole way, I tugged at the skirt have to leave,” I whined. “I don’t want to be
of my uniform, too snug around my hips and around disabled people,” I said.
thighs. At age 15, I’d deemed my 115-pound
weight too high for my 5’ 2” frame. DieƟng soon My mother slammed her hand on the table, sƟll
became an obsession. DramaƟc weight swings wearing a smock like apron over her knit top and
conƟnued throughout my thirƟes. The scale, like pants. “Then you’re saying you don’t want to be
the clothes I wore, became another measure of with your own father.” She used the word disabil-
my worth. ity to describe my father’s condiƟon, rather than
mental illness.
At the state home, the paƟents’ worth was barely
considered. Children and adults were housed to- “Stop complaining. You’re healthy and you have
gether in a one-story building. Some were deaf, your family right here. They need you. You’re not
others confined to wheelchairs or wore heavy leaving that job,” my mother said, picking up the
metal braces on their legs. As I recall, I did not dishes. She had the last word.
receive any special training to do the work. When
the residents needed something, they shouted, I hadn’t yet grasped what she’d sacrificed to take
their words incoherent. “Naannncy,” some of the care of my father and the six of us.
older men would call out in unison. They slob-
bered over me as I propped them up for meals, I wondered what had happened to the White
and sprayed more food on me than they put in Haven residents to put them there.
their mouths.
My father had a younger step sister named Roma-
“Are you sƟll hungry?” I’d ask, trying to clean off nia who was deaf. As a grown woman, she wore
my uniform and show some paƟence, liƩle that I frilly dresses and anklets, the clothes of my child-
had as a teen. It upset me to see the extent of hood. She was assigned to the kids’ table at fami-
their disabiliƟes and dependency on others, like ly gatherings and if anyone provoked her as we
the way my father depended on my mother to were likely to do, she’d moan, or try to talk mak-
ensure he bathed, ate and took an array of pills ing guƩural sounds. SomeƟmes she’d hit whom-
for his depression. ever was nearest, punching and slapping us. My
grandmother treated Romania as if her condiƟon
Lunch Ɵme at the home was a respite. But I’d lost was Romania’s own fault. Grandmother Mary had
my appeƟte and couldn’t eat the tuna or salami leŌ my father’s real father for a different hus-
and provolone sandwiches I’d packed each day. I band, the man with whom she had Romania and
was afraid if I did, I’d throw up and wouldn’t be four more children. How had Romania come out
able to finish my shiŌ. By the aŌernoon break, I so wrong? I wondered if my father’s condiƟon
was ravenous. I snacked on vending machine pea- and Romania’s were connected. But in recalling
nut buƩer crackers and Tab, which sustained me my father’s paƟence as he taught me how to ride
during the ride home. a bike or drove all six of us kids to the state park
for Sunday ouƟngs, there was no sign of Roma-
At dinner, I picked at my food. “I hate it there. I’m nia’s volaƟle behavior. It was aŌer he’d been
quiƫng,” I said. My father sat listening, but didn’t worn down from the pressures of finding and
say a word. Ever since he came home from the losing work that everything changed. He retreat-
hospital, he barely talked. Silent and shrunken, ed into himself and rarely leŌ the house. Years
and no longer able to work, he was a shell of the later, I would learn Romania died at a home. It
robust man I’d known as a liƩle girl. I thought could have been a place like White Haven.
about Danville, the state mental hospital with
bars on the windows, where he was sent aŌer his I stuck it out at White Haven for the rest of the
breakdown. When we visited, I noƟced the men summer. I conƟnued to take my lunch every day,
on my father’s ward talking to themselves, staring but my appeƟte didn’t return. My uniform got
into space or watching us as we tried to act like a looser. Five pounds disappeared without my
normal family. trying. I made the best of walking, feeding and

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Adelaide Magazine

reading to my charges. I decided I was not cut out Miriam, whom I reported to, seemed pleased to
to be a nurse, social worker, or counselor. I’d have a new trainee to order around. She assigned
work with things, like clothes, not people. me the dirƟest tasks -- one was organizing, pack-
ing and returning imperfect goods to the vendors.
AŌer college, I got my wish and was offered a I was also expected to search the receiving area
spot in the execuƟve training program at Lord & for shipments while trying to ignore cat calls from
Taylor. Waitress Ɵps earned over two college the all-male crew, set up merchandise on the sell-
summers funded my move to the city. I was mes- ing floor, and write purchase orders. Our depart-
merized by the fancy FiŌh Avenue emporium, ment generated a high volume of sales, though
floors filled with scrumpƟous dresses, suits, coats not up to management’s expectaƟons, and sever-
and lingerie. Mink clad customers were served al racks of damages, some items worn and re-
coffee before store hours on a main floor of mar- turned by customers, accumulated in a few
ble, crystal chandeliers above. weeks’ Ɵme. Clearing out this unwanted invento-
ry freed up stock room space and the budget to
Behind the scenes, my assignment in a women’s purchase new goods. An empty damage rack
sportswear department meant working in a base- meant avoiding the buyer’s wrath.
ment stockroom with a row of makeshiŌ desks.
Merchandise was crammed on double hung racks Our head buyer, Ms. M, whose office was one
from floor to ceiling. floor above ours, had a no-nonsense style. She
wore trim suits, carefully applied red lipsƟck and
“A Ɵnder box,” a stockman said about my new her brown hair in a short pony tail pulled so Ɵght
office, “and those ladies smoke like chimneys.” I she seemed to strain while talking. Or was she
started checking the ashtrays and doused any emulaƟng the Upper East Side lockjaw of our cus-
smoking embers as I made my rounds from the tomers? When she smoked, she pursed her lips,
selling floor to receiving and back to the stock- face taut as she dragged on her cigareƩe unƟl it
room. I learned how to snake my way through the was reduced to another lipsƟck marked stub. Ms.
narrow aisles while steering rolling rods. I made M rarely smiled, her manner brief and brusque,
friends with the elevator operators who helped except when I heard her speaking to a VP. “We
me with heavy boxes. are having a fabulous day”, she’d remark to one
of her male bosses when they visited our selling
Now I was wearing a different uniform. My new floor. Only moments before she’d complained to
clothes consisted of blazers paired with wide- Miriam and me, “Business is terrible. How are we
legged trousers or A-line skirts that hid my curvy going to make our numbers?”
boƩom. I’d chucked the matching sweater and
skirt I’d worn for my interview. I decided it looked Ms. M would call me over while she was in-
cheap and would not do when I was in the midst specƟng the merchandise.
of my well-dressed colleagues and customers.
“There are missing sizes on that pant. Move these
My first week on the job I learned the company blouses to the front T-stand. Maybe they’ll sell
had one primary goal each day -- to meet sales beƩer if somebody can see them,” she said. “Do it
plan and beat last year’s numbers across every quick, while we have the lunch traffic.” I’d scurry
department. This included women’s apparel, around the floor in heels shiŌing the products
which filled several floors, to accessories, cos- and filling in stock. Then, I’d check the sales re-
meƟcs, children’s wear, men’s clothing and home ports the next week to see if her suggesƟons had
décor. made a difference. I’d point out the successes to
Ms. M when I saw her next. I learned how to set
It was now the mid-1970s, effects of the recession up the floor by color story, “making it flow”, and
sƟll deep. The difficult business environment cre- displayed an ouƞit at the end of each rack to en-
ated a tense and compeƟƟve atmosphere courage customers to buy mulƟple items. I en-
throughout the store. Buyers lorded over their joyed this part of the job and I was good it.
staff. They threw tantrums over an item arriving
in the wrong color, incorrect price Ɵckets or miss- But I struggled to understand the mixed messages
ing purchase orders. The senior assistant buyer, from Miriam and Ms. M when they bickered over

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Revista Adelaide

what had to be done next. They talked about me her.” Sally said this in a soŌ Southern twang, her
as if I wasn’t standing right in front of them. tone calm. “I’ve got a big brother in the Bronx
“Have Nancy finish marking down those God aw- who’ll come right down here and make her
ful striped sweaters for Saturday opening,” Ms. M stop.”
said. “But the vendor returns have to go out and
she has to track down Sunday’s ad shipment,” I was glad to have Sally on my side. I observed
Miriam insisted. “Get a stockman to help,” Ms. M how she spoke to Miriam, Ms. M, and our ven-
said. Then she turned away and walked towards dors, with the authority and confidence I’d lacked
her office. at age 22.

Miriam, the senior assistant buyer, was all angles, “How can I talk to Miriam like you do?” I asked
her 5’8 frame towering over Ms. M and me. She Sally. “I’ll get fired.”
had a Mia Farrow pixie haircut, ala
the Rosemary’s Baby character, and rarely smiled. “I’m in a union. They’d have a parcel of trouble if
I’d heard her talk about wanƟng to be promoted they tried to get rid of me,” Sally said crossing her
to buyer, but I sensed something was wrong be- arms. “No one is going to fire you, you’re only a
cause she’d been Ms. M’s assistant for four years. trainee. When you get to Ms. M’s place, then you
I decided the permanent scowl was limiƟng her have to worry. Especially with the new manage-
future. ment coming in.”

Every Friday aŌernoon, Miriam checked my dam- I thought of my paƟents at White Haven. They
ages rack. “You have to finish these today,” she weren’t subjecƟng me to their whims and de-
said, gingerly touching the garments as if they mands to ruin my day. They weren’t trying to sab-
were lab specimens. “I don’t want to look at them otage me. They were innocents – leŌ at the state
when I come in on Monday and neither will Ms. home because their loved ones could not care for
M. Be sure you lock the stockroom when you them. The residents had no say over their own
leave tonight. That is, aŌer you get all this out the lives, like my cousin Romania. I was free to make
door.” Then she pointed towards my desk. “Don’t my own decisions. At work, I realized certain
forget to file the purchase orders I leŌ for you.” things were in my control. If anyone was holding
me back, it was me.
How would I get everything done when my work
day stretched beyond eight hours? I worried I tried to emulate other assistant buyers a level
about geƫng stuck in trainee hell forever. I start- or two above me. In Chanel-like sling back pumps,
ed geƫng nosebleeds at work. I’d hide in the back wrap dresses, and pearls, they were true profes-
of the stockroom surrounded by racks of print sionals – products of good schools and from fami-
blouses, pants, and jackets trying to stanch the lies who knew about the New York business
bleeding. I stuffed damp Ɵssues up my nose. I world, which I’d entered as a novice. They cast a
knew not to put my head down and where to sympatheƟc ear when I spoke of my difficult boss-
apply pressure with my thumb and forefinger. I es. I noƟced how they kept their cool on the job.
was careful not to drip blood on my clothes and One co-worker, a former flight aƩendant, walked
the merchandise, creaƟng even more damages. through the selling floor as if she was command-
ing an airplane. She sang in the stockroom when
Sally, our clerical, who also worked in the base- she got upset, her way of diffusing tense mo-
ment office, noƟced the wad of dirty Ɵssues I’d ments. I knew I needed to culƟvate calm, rather
tossed in the trashcan between our desks. than running to the ladies’ room to cry when I got
a scolding from the two Ms. M’s.
“What’s the maƩer with you? If you’re sick you’d
beƩer go home,” Sally said. Work at the store was grueling, yet I was en-
tranced with retailing. The arrival of crisp new
“I’m not sick. It’s only a nosebleed. I know how to merchandise was the highlight of my day. I made
stop it, when I have a minute to sit down,” I said. a game of selecƟng the styles I believed would
“Listen here. Don’t let Miriam push you around. sell best. SomeƟmes I was right. When Ms. M was
She’ll keep going at you if you don’t stand up to in a good mood, she’d show us samples and ask
whether she should buy the items. I readily gave

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Adelaide Magazine

her my opinion. I observed our customers and city was a must stop shopping desƟnaƟon for
what appealed to them. They were decades older those in my business. I was thrilled to fit into fash-
than me, and few were perfect size 8’s, unlike the ions meant for diminuƟve Japanese women.
models at lunchƟme fashion shows. It was our
business to help the customers look good. I en- Ms. M was in a simple black jacket like she’d worn
joyed doing this because I saw how clothes made when I worked for her. Where was her shoulder-
a difference in how I felt about my own appear- padded ‘80s power suit?
ance, despite the extra pounds.
“I barely recognized you, Nancy. You’re so thin,”
During those early days at Lord & Taylor, food she said, sizing me up as if I was a customer she
was my solace. I indulged in bagels slathered with was fiƫng. “What are you doing now?”
cream cheese for breakfast, bacon cheeseburgers
for lunch, and buƩer cookies in between. I re- I picked at my coƩage cheese and fruit as I told
membered my White Haven weight loss and her about my growing business, the travel, and
wished I’d lose my appeƟte again. hecƟc pace. Back when I was a trainee, we spoke
only of the job at hand. Now we talked like peers.
My closet was filled with size eights, tens, and “How about you?” I asked.
twelves, worn or not, depending on my weight. A
generous employee discount meant a significant Ms. M worked at a buying office. It was consid-
porƟon of my $8,000 annual salary went back to ered a sleepy place, behind the Ɵmes.
the store’s coffers when I shopped. There was a
favorite Evan Picone navy velvet skirt and a her- “I don’t suppose your company is hiring? I really
ringbone riding jacket that covered up my pear miss my department store days, though
shape boƩom. SƟll, I yearned to be in sleek knit not the management,” she said with a small
dresses and separates like my thinner and consid- laugh. I noƟced a fray on her jacket cuff when she
erably more fashionable co-workers. My FiŌh took out a cigareƩe. Had I heard her right? The
Avenue clothes became a suit of armor. When I’d imperious Ms. M was asking me for a job?
decided to work with beauƟful things, I’d hadn’t
expected people to get in the way. If I wanted to “I’m not sure. I can check with our personnel de-
make it in the tough business of retailing, I’d have partment,” I offered. But I knew our VP decided
to be prepared for combat. on hiring for any new posiƟons. Given Ms. M’s
downward steps, I knew it was unlikely she’d be
AŌer I officially graduated from trainee to assis- considered.
tant buyer, I was assigned to a different buyer
who replaced Ms. M. She was transferred to the Ms. M and I were in different places. Our uni-
blouse department, clearly a demoƟon. My nose- forms said it all.
bleeds stopped and I was no longer relegated to a
basement desk. My new boss was an up and com-
er in his thirƟes hired by the new CEO. He said I
had strong business insƟncts and the “right” taste
level, later recommending me for a promoƟon to
department manager and a move to Washington,
D.C.

Several jobs later, when I was in my early-thirƟes
and had made it to buyer level, I ran into Ms. M at
a coffee shop in the Garment District. By then I
was responsible for a growing casual sportswear
business at another department store. I traveled
to Asia frequently to oversee the product devel-
opment ahead of each season. Now a slimmed
down version of my trainee self, I wore a wrap
top and long slim skirt I'd purchased in Tokyo. The

164

About the Author: Revista Adelaide

Nancy Gendimenico is a writer and markeƟng
consultant based in ManhaƩan. She received an
MFA in CreaƟve WriƟng from Stony Brook Univer-
sity in 2015. Her personal essays and business
arƟcles have been published in various newspa-
pers and trade magazines. Nancy is currently at
work on a collecƟon of personal essays. These
include her experiences growing up in an Italian
American blue-collar family in Northeastern
Pennsylvania, the challenges of creaƟng self-
made success while pursuing a retailing and fash-
ion career in New York, and reflecƟons on moving
from one life stage to another.

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Adelaide Magazine

THE BEAUTY OF
THE MUSIC

by Carol Fixman

My grandfather wanted to be a cantor, but that was ‘off’, but not by how much or in what direc-
never came to pass. My mother had a rich voice Ɵon.
and sang in several groups. But a few years be-
fore she died, she confessed that she had never Music lovers have wriƩen about adults laboring
learned to read music. She had simply followed as novices to play a musical instrument. But my
along and memorized what she heard. type A nature assured me I would be different.
AŌer all, I was supposedly ‘musical’. And not ex-
At nine years old, I desperately wanted to play celling was not an opƟon. However, once my
the piano and, although money did not flow easily cello life moved into the realm of excelling, ambi-
in our household, I succeeded in convincing my Ɵon took the place of pleasure.
parents to buy a piano and send me to lessons.
My love of the piano was not just musical. Touch- When I did not have enough Ɵme to pracƟce and
ing the keys gave me more tacƟle pleasure than a could not progress noƟceably, frustraƟon set in.
nine year old was able to arƟculate. To this day, I And when my teachers’ music reverberated
cannot pass a piano without stroking the keys and through my head, but I could not replicate it, I
striking a few chords, even though I haven’t began to lose paƟence with myself and doubt my
played the instrument for decades. own ability. Perhaps my instrument wasn’t good
enough, I reasoned. But when once during a les-
AŌer many years of not making music, I finally son, one of my cello strings broke with no re-
missed it enough to make the Ɵme to play again. placement available, my teacher let me finish the
But alas, a piano would not fit into our Ɵny house, lesson on her magnificent instrument. Smiling, I
and a smaller electric keyboard did not send the knew things would be different now, and with
same chills up my spine that a piano did. Thus I my cello teacher’s extraordinary music in mind, I
took up the cello. The sound was sonorous and set about playing my etudes. But, of course,
mellow, the instrument handsome and substan- nothing changed substanƟally, except my disap-
Ɵal. And I associated the cello with good friends pointment, which deepened.
who had played well.
Over the years, I did improve, despite work and
LiƩle did I realize how difficult it would be for an injuries that interrupted my playing mulƟple
adult to learn to play a stringed instrument. I had Ɵmes. My teachers were always paƟent and en-
to find the tones, as there were no keys sepa- couraging. However, my ears were good enough
raƟng them. Bowing was much more complicat- to know how far I sƟll had to go even to approxi-
ed than I had imagined. And since the cello tem- mate the resonant tones that touched my body
peramentally responded to the slightest change and soul when I listened to accomplished cellists.
in weather, it had to be tuned frequently. As I
was not endowed with perfect pitch, my un- Everyone was encouraging, including my ever-
trained ear could only tell me that the instrument tolerant husband, as well as the bus driver who
thought I was carrying an oversized guitar, and

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Revista Adelaide

the children who thought I resembled a ninja tur- About the Author:
tle when I carried my cello on my back. I smiled
when someone on the street asked me if I played Carol Fixman has wriƩen personal essays, stories
in the Philadelphia Orchestra. But when a neigh- and family memories. They live in her desk draw-
bor once quipped that I did not sound so bad any er, although she is slowly beginning to share them
more, I never again pracƟced with open windows. with others. ReƟred from the world of non-
profits and universiƟes, she is a transplanted Mid-
SomeƟmes when I mustered the courage, I was westerner in Philadelphia.
able to play music with others. The thrill of hear-
ing my cello blend with a violin or piano overcame
my reserve in these cases. But it was sƟll nerve-
wracking to play in front of others. Relax, my
teacher would urge me, though someƟmes with
the opposite effect. And when my body sight-
ened, my music became tense. Drawing my bow
through the strings, I felt as if I was skaƟng on
raspy ice the Zamboni machine had not yet
cleaned.

Finally, when I had the luxury of pracƟcing every
day for a substanƟal period of Ɵme without rush-
ing, I began to relax and feel the tones flow more
easily. One day, gently holding my cello as if it
were part of me, and drawing my bow calmly but
with inner strength, I suddenly felt the instrument
vibrate in my gut, as if it were speaking with me,
rather than to me. From then on, my teacher
was able to help me listen for the quality I want-
ed, for the resonant ring in the strings, as I began
to trust my ears. She helped me embrace the
cello as an intensely tacƟle experience and to feel
it as much as I hear it. The music needed to come
from my core, not just from my hands. I learned
to feel the instrument’s vibraƟons in my own
body, as I learned to hear the cello as a living
voice and to modulate it as I would my own voice.

I finally found myself playing to experience the
beauty of the music, rather than taking pleasure
in marking an accomplishment. It was the pro-
cess of creaƟng music that enchanted me, not the
pride of achieving a goal. On days when my cello
and I are able to meld, I feel I’ve come full circle,
as I think of a nine-year-old capƟvated by musical
beauty and the feel of an instrument.

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Adelaide Magazine

ON SIDEKICKS

by Robert WexelblaƩ

Yesterday I looked through an old photo album, pitched roofs leaning over cobbled squares. St.
the sort of thing you do once a decade or so. The MarƟn’s Gothic church dominates Colmar’s mod-
album is covered in cracked brown leather; the est skyline and looks German too, big and stolid,
black-and-white snapshots have those liƩle trian- without French grace. It was begun in the 13th
gles at each corner to hold them in place. On the century on the remains of an older church. Per-
second page is a photograph I recalled my father haps the Carolingian chapel looked more French.
once made a point of showing me, with commen- Even the wines of the region are German—
tary. The picture is of my great-grandfather, Elias Riesling and Gewürtztraminer. Alsace was hospi-
Fein, standing in front of his place of business. He table to both French and German anƟ-SemiƟsm—
has on a black suit with a high white collar; his a tradiƟon that, like haute cuisine, Oktoberfest,
arms crossed. He isn’t smiling proudly but stands and Brooks Brothers never goes out of style. Easy
there grim and pugnacious, the immigrant who to understand why Elias would have yearned to
has staked his claim and isn’t just prepared but find a new world. For his longing, we all-
eager to defend it. American Feins must be grateful.

“That’s exactly how I remember him,” my father Great-grandfather Elias was not a money-lender
had said. but a tailor. He seƩled in the Tioga secƟon of
Philadelphia and started up a business in cheap
Elias emigrated from Colmar in Alsace; it isn’t women’s dresses. He did all right, I suppose; but
hard to figure out why. Colmar is usually in when the business was taken over by his elder
France but has someƟmes been in Germany; it son Reuben, a real go-geƩer, it took off. Reuben
depends on who won the last war. In 1349, the had vision. He opened new markets and hired a
ChrisƟans of Colmar massacred the Jews of Col- lot of competent and diligent women who, ac-
mar. Napoleon Bonaparte was a liberator of cording to family lore, he encouraged to join the
Jews—he’s a hero to many sƟll —but he didn’t Ladies Garments Workers Union. His younger
love them. He turned on the Jews of Colmar by brother, my grandfather Emmanuel (the name of
freeing the GenƟles who owed them money of a messiah), could have joined the business but
their debts. In 1848, there were anƟ-SemiƟc riots had no interest in it. Instead, he convinced his
in Colmar as in so many other civilized spots in father to send him to Penn Law. He became fa-
Europe. Alfred Dreyfus came from Alsace too, mous/notorious as a crusading liberal who took
from Mulhouse, right down the road from Col- on “causes”. He even ran for mayor once. In-
mar. He was accused of being born with double stead of being proud of this, my father dismissed
disloyalty: a German sympathizer by locaƟon, by it as a ploy by the bosses to flaƩer his vanity and
heritage an alien Jew. divide the Jewish vote. His only son, my father
Henry, was as disgusted by the prospect of be-
I visited Colmar once, just to see the place. The coming a lawyer as his father was by the dress
town looks echt Deutsch, a sort of Grimms theme factory; he parƟcularly didn’t want any part of
park, with tall, half-Ɵmbered buildings with high

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Revista Adelaide

crusading, nor would he consent to be a doctor, professions to trade. To fill the void, my grandfa-
or even a denƟst. Perhaps owing to some atavis- ther took on an associate, Bernard J. Black. Ber-
Ɵc impulse, or well-aimed Oedipal thrust, what nie was somebody’s nephew, so this was an act of
my father chose to do was business, to make lots kindness. Bernie was certainly grateful—more
of money and to do it without pretenƟons. than grateful—but he was not a surrogate son.
He became something else. Bernie Black was
Father valued personal virtues but didn’t believe Grandfather’s sidekick—also my friend.
in collecƟve ones. PoliƟcs he considered a heap
of empty clichés, phony promises, and grubby I have fond memories of Bernie. He was much
moƟves. His father’s fame as a do-gooder might warmer toward me than Grandfather, and he was
have inƟmidated but it didn’t impress him. “The fun. He didn’t spout sermons or screeds; he
difference between God and a social worker is asked me quesƟons I couldn’t answer but liked
that God doesn’t pretend to be a social worker,” being asked: Was I happy? What were my two
he once cracked. Yet he denied being cynical. O favorite books? Did I think my school was really
the contrary, he claimed it was the poliƟcians trying to integrate the wave of new students
who were the cynics, lying and bamboozling and who’d fled the South? He was always asking me
trying to stay in office long enough to be called silly riddles. “What gets weƩer the more it
statesmen and hailed for their public service. dries?” (A towel.) “What’s the difference be-
“I’m the idealist,” he declared, “the pracƟcal tween a piano, glue, and a tuna?” (You can tuna
kind.” So, Father joined his Uncle Reuben at Fe- piano but you can’t piano a tuna!) “That’s good,”
male ThriŌ Fashions, Inc. and, aŌer a few years, I said, “but what about the glue?” “Sorry, Sid. I’m
was running the place. Like Reuben, he had vi- stuck on that!”
sion, a vision so large enough it required a bigger
city. “Philadelphia,” he said, “is one big inferiority During my visits Grandfather usually turned me
complex.” When I was twelve, he moved FTF and over to Bernie. We went to lunch at the Horn and
us to New York, where he made it big. “That’s Hardart automat. At one of these lunches, Bernie
why you’ve got the means to be a decadent intel- asked whether I had a girlfriend and, thinking of
lectual,” as he reminded me recently. Caitlin O’Brien, I blushed. “So, it’s a secret, eh?
Good, secrets are okay. But look, maybe I’ll tell
Before I was whisked off to Brooklyn, there were you a secret.” He glanced around the crowded
several occasions when I was leŌ to spend an restaurant and whispered, “But later, not here.”
unkept Sabbath at my grandfather’s office. I When we got back, he ushered me into his liƩle
loved being there. The place had a legal smell of office, shut his door, sat me down, and with great
old wood, musty rows of law books, a motherly solemnity, said what he was about to tell me his
secretary/recepƟonist, and a man who wasn’t any “most secret” secret. It turned out to be that his
kind of father but a friend. Grandfather kept in- family’s real name was Blechschmidt.
teresƟng objects on his desk, including a shocking
big copper shell-casing he said was from the Civil “Ugh! Blechschmidt means Ɵnker—you know, Ɵn
War. He always started off well enough, asking -smith. But blech can also mean nonsense. Just
about my week, about what I was learning in imagine having to go through life as Bernie Blech-
school; but in no Ɵme he was delivering lectures schmidt. Bernard Jesse Blechschmidt, forger of
on plutocracy, racism, the countless venal and rubbish. Phooey!”
mortal sins of bankers, corporaƟons, hypocriƟcal
foreign policy, and the awful things going on in Bernie was good company, one of those adults
City Hall, under the nose of William Penn. who have the knack of treaƟng children as equals;
but what I had a hard Ɵme figuring out was his
Even as a child, it was clear to me that Grandfa- aƫtude toward Grandfather. At Ɵmes, it seemed
ther felt betrayed by my father, who had chosen simply unalloyed adoraƟon but, at others, a sort
his brother over him. I expect he had looked for- of wry, if unshakably faithful, skepƟcism. He was
ward to his son becoming his partner, fighƟng proud of my grandfather and his crusading, but
injusƟce at his side rather than, as he once angrily not so much that he couldn’t make a joke now
put it, “hawking shoddy schmaƩes.” I suppose and then about them both—or appreciate one.
in his eyes it was a step backward, from the

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Adelaide Magazine

Bernie cracked up when I told him what my father older, and feels right. This source says the term
had said about God and the social worker. was first used in 1886 and meant “side-pal” or
“side-partner”—a wingman, so to speak. The
Like many pale, ectomorphic urban boys of my source is obviously American. There was sƟll
generaƟon, I loved the old B-Westerns, Heaven plenty of Wild West around in 1886.
knows how many of these Hollywood cranked out
during the Depression and the war—so may that Sidekicks resemble each other. They are a type.
they were bound to be formulaic, like concerƟ However, some famous sidekicks, especially from
grossi. more civilized Europe, are different from those in
the Westerns. Dr. Watson is certainly a sidekick,
All the usual things capƟvated me: the empty but who can imagine Gabby Hayes wriƟng up
plains and mesas that signified limitless space and Hopalong’s adventures or Pancho with a medical
feƩerless freedom not to be found even in Pro- degree upbraiding Cisco for downing too much
spect Park. Then there were the horses, the ro- tequila out of sheer ennui? Sure, there’s Doc Hol-
manƟc adventures, shoot-outs and showdowns liday, but he was more gambler and gunfighter
where the bullets never exploded flesh or struck than denƟst, only a temporary sidekick for WyaƩ
the hero. I also liked small, odd details, things you Earp, and an actual person, while real sidekicks—
couldn’t really talk about: for instance, that the by which I mean the ficƟonal ones—aren’t tem-
cowboys never had to go to the bathroom, wash, porary. If the hero loses his sidekick, another is
change their clothes, or shave; that they were found at once. When Chester leŌ Gunsmoke,
never short of cash, lived on a diet of beef and Festus, an even more sidekicky sidekick, turned
beans and seemed to have no parents, as if born up the next week.
in their prime. The heroes were not only relaƟve-
free but always on the move. While I was an- Cowboy movies don’t explain how or why the
chored to my home, they were homeless, which I hero acquired his sidekick, why the sidekick sƟcks
took as liberaƟon. The excepƟon was Roy Rogers by the hero, or who needes the other more. The
who owned a beauƟful spread and had a cowgirl need, like the relaƟonship, is simply a donnée,
wife, Dale Evans—the first wife I encountered part of the formula. Yet the implicaƟon is that, in
who didn’t take her husband’s name. What you addiƟon to providing for dialogue between acƟon
wanted from Roy and Dale was for them to adopt sequences, their needs are mutual. I suppose I
you. I liked that the heroes’ inƟmacy with their felt this vaguely as a child; now I think that the
horses, who had names of their own, dignified sidekick grounds the hero who, for his part, needs
names like Champion, Silver, Trigger, Black Jack. not only an anchor, but a subordinate too, some-
Almost all of these cowboy heroes had sidekicks; one whose anƟ-heroism will be a foil for his valor.
but I hadn’t thought much about them unƟl the The sidekick iniƟates nothing; he is literally along
day it struck me that a sidekick is what Bernie for the ride. He may, like Bernie, be skepƟcal of
Black was—Emmanuel’s Andy Devine and Smiley his pal’s knight-errantry and the danger it puts
BurneƩe, my grandfather’s Gabby Hayes and Slim him in; but sidekicking is beƩer than homestead-
Pickens. This meant that my grandfather must be ing or running a dry goods store. So, he aƩaches
in the mold of Whip Wilson, Hopalong Cassidy, himself, makes a profession of it—just as the old
Rocky Lane, Tim Holt, Bob Steele, the Durango character-actors made their careers by hitching
Kid, Sunset Carson, Rex Allen, and the Cisco Kid. their chuck wagons to a star.
It seemed improbable to me; however, like them,
he fought injusƟce, albeit in the Wild East. And Are these relaƟonships homoeroƟc? Only the
like them, he had a sidekick. most willful of psychoanalyƟc theoreƟcians would
push the point. SƟll, the bond of hero and side-
I have tracked down two etymologies for the kick does mirror many childhood and adolescent
term sidekick. One traces it back to 1896 and the bonds, not only for boys but for girls as well, chil-
slang of pickpockets. The “kick” was the front dren in the stage of “best friends,” when boys
side pocket of a pair of trousers, the hardest to useless at sports fasten themselves to stronger,
pick, the safest. So, says the lexicographer, a more athleƟc ones and unprepossessing girls to
“side-kick” was a person’s closest companion. popular ones. And yet nobody wanted to be Nug-
This seems fanciful. The alternaƟve is simpler, get Clark Waller; everybody wished to be Rocky

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Revista Adelaide

Lane or Tim Holt. The hero always has beƩer was famous for his speeches in court, just as
gear: fancier ouƞits, beƩer mounts, shinier six- Quixote mimicked the inflated language of his
guns. Westerns are puerile fantasies, wishes ful- beloved romances. Bernie was plain-spoken but
filled in ninety-minute vacaƟons from the ordi- he always made sound sense. Sancho also is not
nary. Wyoming was, for me, an alternate uni- eloquent but he has a boƩomless bag of prov-
verse. But then there was also the suspicion, erbs, the common wisdom of the common man.
quickly repressed, that, if I could actually move Rain in May makes bread for the whole year.
into that world, I wouldn’t be a hero, that the Dainty dogs may eat dirty puddings. He whose
best I could hope for was to be the sidekick. May- father is a judge goes safe to trial. And so on and
be this is what Bernie Black felt about his fate. on. Some of Sancho’s proverbs strike me as espe-
Being my grandfather’s dogs body in pursuit of cially suited to sidekicks, such as It is other peo-
mostly lost causes, standing up by his side ple’s burdens that kill the ass or The bay horse
(actually, a liƩle behind) for the Right and Good thinks one thing, the man who saddles him anoth-
was much beƩer than wriƟng wills and doing Ɵtle er. A sidekick is a bit like that ass, that bay horse;
searches. Sidekicks know their limits. That’s part that is, he is subject to the commands, whims,
of what makes them sidekicks rather than heroes. thoughts, and burdens of another. Sancho must
know that Quixote is crazy but he follows him all
The sidekick is like the B-side of a hit 45 record. the same. Like all good sidekicks, he is in love
They are played by actors whose faces you recog- with a madness he doesn’t share and parƟally
nize but whose names seldom make it off the Ɵp deplores yet abets. It’s so much more fun to be
of your tongue. They have a kind of individuality Quixote’s squire than to be Sancho the family
that’s a liƩle deeper and more human than the man, Panza the stay-at-home, that he eagerly lays
heroes defined by their signature gimmicks— aside his own sanity unƟl it is needed. So, it
Hoot Gibson’s ten-gallon hat, Lash Larue’s bull- makes perfect sense that, when Quixote recovers
whip. They aren’t so brave or fast on the draw as his mind, it should be Sancho who pleads with
the heroes, not as eloquent, smart, charismaƟc, him to sally forth once more, to return to mad-
or flashily clad—yet they are reliable, ever faith- ness.
ful, with two feet on the ground, unlike their LuŌ-
menschen companions. If you think about them The most profound and also the most playful
at all, you might wonder what they were like ten commentary on the sidekick’s relaƟonship to the
years earlier, you might guess they made private hero is Franz KaŅa’s astonishing tale in The Great
jokes about the hero. Wall of China, “The Truth about Sancho Panza”.
This two-sentence masterpiece was first pub-
The relaƟons between the Western hero and lished in 1931, well aŌer KaŅa’s death, and by his
sidekick are those of master and slave. Rather, own sidekick, Max Brod, who also gave the para-
the affiliaƟon seems to me to derive from the one ble its Ɵtle:
between knight and squire. Nevertheless, I think
the model isn’t the knightly romances but rather Without making any boast of it Sancho Panza suc-
Cervantes’ sublime saƟre on them, El ingenioso ceeded in the
hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha. In other
words, the ur-sidekick is Sancho Panza. course of years, by devouring a great number of
romances of chivalry
Like Sancho, the sidekick is completely sane, even
if he’d prefer not to be. Like Quixote, the hero is and adventure in the evening and night hours, in
slightly mad, driven by his cause of bringing jus- so diverƟng from
Ɵce to the West, addicted to conflict. Heroes
never claim to be heroes for the same reason that him his demon, whom he later called Don Quix-
people suffering from delusions don’t claim to be ote, that his demon
deluded.
thereupon set out in perfect freedom on the
The relaƟonship between Bernie Black and my maddest exploits, which,
grandfather must hae been to some degree like
that between the Don and his squire. Emmanuel

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Adelaide Magazine

however, for the lack of a preordained object, aƩracted a couple of thousand people. The eulo-
which should have been gy was delivered by the head of the NAACP.

Sancho Panza himself, harmed nobody. A free “On Sidekicks” is a sort of essay, but it is also a
man, Sancho Panza memoir, a “Feinian” one in its unexpected turns,
digressions, with an appearance from KaŅa at the
philosophically followed Don Quixote on his cru- end. What is not typical of Fein are its revelaƟons
sades, perhaps out about family history and the author’s childhood,
his love of the old B-Westerns, even the name of
of a sense of responsibility, and had of them a a girl on whom he had a prepubescent crush.
great and edifying Fein was rarely so open about himself, at least in
his wriƟngs, which tend more toward abstracƟon
entertainment to the end of his days. than confessional inƟmacy.

Well, what else but romanƟc demons were Crash It is never easy to say just what Fein’s intenƟons
Corrigan and Whip Wilson? And what else but were with his unpublished papers, or even why
puerile ediƟons of Sancho Panza were the side- he chose to leave them unpublished. “On Side-
kicks who accompanied them on their adven- kicks” may have been abandoned or put aside
tures? Was it like this for Bernie Black? Was my with the intenƟon of returning to revise and reor-
grandfather in some sense his diverted demon, ganize—but, just as likely, it is merely a set of free
the source of endless edifying entertainment, to associaƟons and variaƟons on a theme, observa-
be served because Emmanuel, messianic Ɵlter at Ɵons without any special focus or adequate unity.
windmills, was, in some sense, his responsibility? Nevertheless, that Fein both revised and typed it
up what he wrote suggests a serious purpose.
I can imagine a reversal of KaŅa’s story. Here it is
the sidekick who is the demon, a dull, normal, As an adult, Fein liked movies, his taste maturing
limited, second-rate demon conjured up by a he- as he did. His daughter recalls his telling her that
ro who is anxious that—without such a one to the first Ɵme he realized film could be an art-form
remind him of what it really is—he would lose the rather than what ScoƩ Fitzgerald called “wet
world even as he went about seƫng it to rights. goods for children” (see “On Mystery”), was when
he saw The Seventh Seal. Bergman’s film was
Editor’s Note released in the U. S. in October, 1958, when Fein
was sixteen. His comments here on the Westerns
I found this text in Fein’s folder for 1973. There is of his childhood indicate that he saw a lot of them
a holograph, with revisions, stapled to a type- but looked back on them as childish and formula-
script. As Max Brod gave KaŅa’s story its Ɵtle, I ic, debased, melodramaƟc versions of Don Quix-
have done the same with this essay. ote; yet as a boy he loved them and, at thirty-one,
thinking of his forebears, and especially of his
Fein’s grandfather Emmanuel died in September grandfather’s associate Bernard Black, wrote of
1963. According to his daughter, Fein believed them with insight, nostalgia, and fondness.
the SixƟes began on November 22 of that year,
the day John F. Kennedy and Aldous Huxley died. While Fein has a good deal to say about the men
He regreƩed his grandfather missed a decade he in the Fein family, there is not a word here about
would have relished, one in which many of his the women, no menƟon of a grandmother, moth-
lost causes were won, or at least reconsidered: er, or aunt. I think the explanaƟon is not that
red-lining, police brutality, manifestly unfair sen- Fein was indifferent to women or matriarchs—he
tencing, zoning corrupƟon, industrial polluƟon, had plenty to say of the former in Want, Desire,
decepƟve adverƟsing, violaƟons of labor law. and Need and of the laƩer in AristocraƟc Democ-
Had he lived, Emmanuel Fein’s career of defend- racy. I believe he was concentraƟng here on the
ing the indigent and going aŌer the affluent exclusively masculine worlds of the old Westerns
would have been celebrated. Even as it was, The and his grandfather’s law office, the fricƟon
Philadelphia Inquirer reported that his funeral between fathers and sons, but, above all, on the

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Revista Adelaide
bond of male hero and sidekick, and perhaps his
own capacity, or inability, to be either one or the
other.

About the Author:

Robert WexelblaƩ is professor of humaniƟes at
Boston University’s College of General Studies. He
has published five ficƟon collecƟons, Life in the
Temperate Zone, The Decline of Our Neighbor-
hood, The ArƟst Wears Rough Clothing, Heiberg’s
Twitch, and PeƟtes Suites; a book of es-
says, Professors at Play; two short nov-
els, Losses and The Derangement of Jules Torque-
mal; essays, stories, and poems in a variety of
scholarly and literary journals, and the nov-
el Zublinka Among Women, awardedthe Indie
Book Awards first prize for ficƟon. A collecƟon of
essays, The Posthumous Papers of Sidney Fein, is
forthcoming.

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Adelaide Magazine

DELIVERIES

by Carol Crawford

A week before Christmas I stood in my Georgia she was probably too young for the program. She
driveway in a thin sweater, holding an oversized, wasn’t. I freƩed she was not ready. Her teachers
fleece-lined, water repellent coat. I wrestled it said she was. She was not leaving someday. She
into the back of my car while it shimmied and was leaving now. I was happy for her. Really. SƟll,
slipped and threw out one arm, then another, like for weeks I carried the vague, panicky feeling that
a balky child who didn’t want to go. there was some crucial nugget of wisdom I had
forgoƩen to impart before she leŌ.
Our Emily and her husband had been living in
temperate North Carolina, but were moving to Her sisters, Caroline and Abby, followed her be-
New England during one of the coldest winters on yond the local school, beyond the family vaca-
record. Ɵons, beyond me.

We brought up our children in a small town. It’s While I supported this venturing, I wanted them
scenic and friendly, but I have city roots. I always to have what they needed out there. I have heard
wanted them to know what else was out there. about mothers who do not bring their children’s
To go other places and see other things. To have forgoƩen objects on principle. If a school child
choices. has no lunch one day, they reason, she will re-
member to bring it from home next Ɵme. If she is
“I can’t believe you let your kids move so far away benched from her soccer game because she is
from you,” a friend said upon hearing the news of without shin guards, she will learn something.
Emily’s move. I’m not sure how I could stop them,
now they’re adults and all, but the truth is it I am not that mother. I have a slight tendency to
might be my fault. For years I have been sending over-empathize and I am a liƩle scaƩered myself,
the unspoken message that they have my blessing as is my husband. It was hard for us to come
to go. down too hard on children who leŌ a science pro-
ject on the kitchen table when my forgoƩen gym
Early on I sent them off for short periods -- on shoes and my husband’s misplaced wallet might
field trips and band trips and mission trips, to very well be siƫng beside it. Too, I figure life has
camp and to visit relaƟves. As they grew I talked enough hard lessons – no need to not fix a prob-
up college too, but that was for later. Even as lem when I am able.
they entered high school, it seemed a comforta-
ble distance away. I would have four whole years So I brought them things. Lunches. Inhalers. Per-
leŌ with all of them at home. There would be mission slips. I ferried cleats for the soccer player,
plenty of Ɵme for more family excursions to pick a clarinet for the member of the band, then a
a Christmas tree and then come home and watch French horn for her liƩle sister. On a family trip, I
LiƩle Women again. once traversed an icy road in Idaho to bring their
jeans aŌer a snowmobiling expediƟon. They had
Then Emily, our oldest, discovered a program that brought snow suits home the night before and
would enable her to go to college early. I told her

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worn them to the snowmobile place, forgeƫng When the latest job offer came through, there
they would have to return the suits and then was much family chaƩer. Southerners all, in my
wear something on the ride home. clan we do not know much about New England.
But we know it’s cold.
During her college years, one of my girls leŌ an
enƟre backpack aŌer a weekend visit. It was full My girls are now scaƩered across the country.
of essenƟal books and assignments. She and I The warm part of the country. Between them
each drove an hour to meet in the middle and they own one really warm coat. It was a giŌ to
make the hand-off. I mailed things too: Starbucks Caroline for her sojourn in Canada. Now living in
cards, newspaper clippings, medicine, the occa- Tennessee, she doesn’t need it any more. It was
sional infusion of cash, and someƟmes snacks to idling at the back of a closet at my house, all but
get them through exams. forgoƩen, unƟl she offered it up for her sister’s
new adventure.
Caroline once needed an ouƞit to go to a party
and called me about it. I found the slip of a gar- I dug it out. It looks like something you would
ment in her room, a yard or two of blue-gray silk, take to the Iditarod. It falls to the ankles, filled
with a fiƩed waist and eyelet lace on the bodice with down, sewn with clever pockets and secret
and hem. It was a reasonable length, as college zippers and a hood you can pull Ɵght around your
dresses go. SƟll, silk’s a thin fabric, and it fit neatly face, complete with faux fur ruff. All that warmth
into a padded envelope the size of a Kindle. Ka- takes up a lot of space, and I knew I didn’t have a
ren, at the Post Office window, knows me well single spare box in the house that could contain
and has tracked my various shipping desƟnaƟons it.
as the girls spread their wings. She went through
her usual spiel, asking whether it was liquid, frag- Holding the coat, I stood in line at our local pack
ile, perishable, or potenƟally hazardous. “No,” I and mail place. It was a long line, being so close to
said. “It’s none of that. I’m mailing a dress to my the holidays. I felt foolish for being there, felt like
daughter.” Karen raised an eyebrow, looking explaining that I had already mailed my presents
down. to my sister and assorted far-flung friends. I do
that early, always. Instead I waited silently behind
“Really?” she said. I didn’t know what she was the guy mailing an awkward-sized puzzle to his
geƫng at. Did she think I was sending contra- grandson and the woman mailing twenty-seven
band? I was about to protest when I caught orders from her Ebay business.
movement behind me. The next guy in line,
craning his neck. At last the line diminished, and it was my turn to
place the mega-coat on the counter with a help-
When I looked up he gave a sheepish grin, less gesture. “I really need to ship this,” I said.
shrugged an apology, and murmured, “Small “But I don’t know how.”
dress.”
Tammy, the lady in charge, was not fazed. She
AŌer college they went farther afield. A newspa- sized it up. “Oh, sure,” she said. “We have some-
per job seven states away. A Peace Corps sƟnt in thing for that.” She went to the back and re-
Guatemala. A summer sojourn working in Glacier turned with a box that I knew was too small. I
NaƟonal Park. Grad school over the border in started to point this out, but I have never seen
Vancouver. New employment in California. her defeated. So I decided to wait and see.
LeƩers and parcels followed them. I do not know
how much the packages comforted them. I know Tammy took the coat and folded it as though it
they comforted me. Most recently my oldest were a shirt. She flipped it over once. Leaned on
started playing ouƞield for her company soŌball it. Tucked in sleeves, re-folded, re-leaned. The
team, so we dusted off her father’s old baseball process went on, tucking and folding and leaning.
miƩ and put it in the mail. Now the tradiƟon con- Compressing, compressing. The coat was shrink-
Ɵnues. Abby has become a professional baker, ing before me.
and put her own surprises in the mail this year. All
of us, in our assorted zip codes, found boxes of A guy came in behind me with a UPS drop off. She
gourmet cookies in our mailboxes as Christmas looked up, smiling. “That ready to go? Just leave it
approached. over there.” She pointed with her head, never
taking her hands from the coat.

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Another woman wanted packing materials. Tam- without the burned chicken. So we are not such
my called up another employee from the back, strangers when we do see each others’ faces on
sƟll not loosening her grasp. real visits, when I am lucky enough to have “mom
Ɵme,” with them, in the flesh.
As she did her work, I had more Ɵme to think
through the various addresses on all the boxes I And that crucial piece of missing informaƟon I
had sent. Young Harris College. The University of was worried about when Emily leŌ early for col-
Georgia. Boston, San Francisco, Nashville, Arkan- lege? I stopped freƫng about it. On her first
sas, Texas, Montana, Guatemala, Canada. Reun- weekend visit home, it was clear from the light in
ions and departures, going out and coming home. her face that the decision had been right. At some
UnƟl home, for them, was someplace else. point, without my noƟcing, she had accrued what
she needed to make the leap.
I was always glad for them, but also I found it
impossible to erase their farewell voice mails on Tammy was finished. Leaning on a small brown
my phone. More than once I quesƟoned my own garment that was, impossibly, the Big Coat.
philosophy of showing them their opƟons.
She was hunched over it, squashing it one last
When the children were Ɵny, just walking, I felt I Ɵme. She stood carefully, focused on the now-
had to have them in my line of sight all the Ɵme – compact lump of nylon and fleece.
unless they were asleep or corralled in a play pen.
When they got older, though, supervision in the “Okay now,” she said. If you could just hold it
house was more about listening. I got used to a while I get the box.” She held it out and I took it,
constant low hum of acƟvity, of siblings praƩling careful to keep it compressed but sƟll, ridiculous-
at each other, sudden giggles and low, territorial ly, not wanƟng to hurt it. It was surprisingly light,
growls. My work, whether laundry or bill-paying if unwieldy. A bit like a squeezable, oversized bur-
or wriƟng – could go on with these sounds in the rito. There was something about its shape – or
background. But certain kinds of claƩer brought perhaps my cradling posture – that brought back
me running. A cry of pain, an escalaƟng series of sudden memories of my bundled newborns,
shouts, an unexplained boom or rumble or crash. handed into my arms all those years ago. I shiŌed
All heralded trouble: a child had taken a forbid- my weight, and the Ɵp of a sleeve peeked out as
den jump off the top bunk bed or one sib had though trying to escape and go somewhere.
given another an unwanted haircut.
“You got it, honey?” Tammy said. She paƩed my
Now that we don’t all live in the same house, lis- arm before turning to open the box flaps. “Hold
tening maƩers even more, even though it is done Ɵght now,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t let
long-distance. No news is oŌen good news – a go.”
several-day silence can mean a child is happily
busy and will touch base when she can. But some-
Ɵmes a tone of voice or a terse text sends an
alarm signal that makes me want to drop every-
thing, pack a bag, and close the distance between
us.

My mother’s sister spent some years living in
Spain with her Air Force husband in the fiŌies. I
have the leƩers she wrote back to Texas, full of
news and daily observaƟons about her life there.
The leƩers did the job – the sisters stayed thick as
thieves their whole lives. But I’m grateful for my
texts and emails, for Instagram and Facebook.

I recently aƩended a virtual baby shower for a
young cousin. And Emily once organized a group
video call for the family to talk about our
collecƟve DNA. It was like having dinner together

176

About the Author: Revista Adelaide

Carol Crawford is the author of The Habit of Mer-
cy, Poems about Daughters and Mothers, and has
been published in the Southern HumaniƟes Re-
view, Appalachian Heritage, the Concho River
Review, the ChaƩahoochee Review, and the Jour-
nal of Kentucky Studies among others. She has
been program coordinator for the annual Blue
Ridge Writers’ Conference since its incepƟon in
1996. Her website is carolcrawfordediƟng.com.

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Adelaide Magazine

TOY GUN AND
VIDEO GAME PLAY

by Mary Bonina

One of my son Gianni’s favorite toys when he was aŌer the kids had seen what was for sale, they’d
a toddler and preschooler was a small, plasƟc go home and pester their parents to buy them
“workbench” and drill. It was compact, so he what they wanted.
could carry it around with him and set it up wher-
ever he felt like, and busy himself drilling large The city park near Rita’s home is the place where
plasƟc “screws” into the holes on the bench. The I go running now, but when my son was small, I
keyword here is plasƟc; it was a toy for pretend- didn’t really know it. I’ve since learned that it is a
ing. This was, I thought, an innocent acƟvity that true city park, one I refer to as Texas, because it is
would help him develop precision and manual so large. It reflects the mulƟ-cultural character of
dexterity. My son enjoyed the drilling, as you Cambridge, and many day care providers, par-
might imagine. He and his workbench were on ents, and babysiƩers take kids there. The park is
the floor next to me in the kitchen when I was also located near several elementary level
preparing dinner. When his dad sat on the couch schools, so teachers and kids from Montessori
reading, Gianni sat on the floor at his feet, drilling and another private school nearby, as well as the
away. Or he went into his room and talked neighboring Catholic School and a Cambridge
through some play scenario he imagined with it. Public School, make good use of the playground,
the soccer and baseball fields, and the track. My
When he was three, so that I could work I en- son and the other children in Rita’s care had plen-
rolled him for a few days a week in a home day ty of playmates to engage with at the park.
care situaƟon. Rita, the day care provider, lived
near a shopping mall and a city park and usually One aŌernoon aŌer Gianni came home from day
at some point during the day she would take her care, I was folding clothes and puƫng them away,
charges out for a walk and outdoor play, if the trying to catch up on chores that had been put off
weather allowed. On very hot summer aŌernoons unƟl I finished work. He snuck up on me with his
I learned that they went to the shopping mall, plasƟc drill in hand—no workbench in sight—and
where there was an air-condiƟoned big box toy he pointed the drill at me, startling me on two
store, and she would let the kids loose in the counts. I hadn’t known that he was in the room,
aisles. I could imagine the scene that resulted, but more surprisingly, he was using the drill not
having gone shopping for birthday giŌs with my as I’d ever seen him use it; he was poinƟng it at
son at that store. But it was cooler inside and they me, so it became a facsimile of a gun. He pulled
all got some exercise, I suppose, running from the trigger so it made its drilling sound and I
one toy to another, and according to my son, thought of a machine gun.
even riding tricycles on display, up and down the
aisles. As far as I know, the management never “What’s that?” I asked him, stunned.
banned them from the store, even though they
didn’t purchase any toys and must have caused “It’s a tooka, Mom,” he answered. “Take things
some commoƟon. Perhaps they thought that with. I’m a tooka man.”

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Revista Adelaide

I thought of a blues song, but then I realized that I began to think of my own childhood, of growing
what had happened was that he didn’t know the up in the fiŌies and early sixƟes. I remember that
vocabulary, but he had somehow learned—at the I wanted to be a cowgirl when I grew up. Perhaps
park with the other kids, I figured—what an the fact that there were over one hundred west-
armed robbery was. A tooka was a gun. A tooka ern series aired on television networks from 1949
man was a thief or robber. If I had naively through the late 1960s had something to do with
thought I could shelter him from knowing of such that. Television was new in households in the
things at least unƟl he went to school, I now had 1950s and as it was in our family, TV viewing be-
hard evidence that my son would learn on his came the primary entertainment in the U.S. My
own simply by observing and engaging in play sisters and I loved being transported to the 19th
with other children, no maƩer how hard I tried to century west, and so the seƫng and the way that
protect him from what I thought would taint his jusƟce was served at that Ɵme loomed large in
development. Because Gianni was a creaƟve, in- our imaginaƟons. We especially loved watching
telligent, and curious child he would use his abili- The Lone Ranger, The Life and Legend of WyaƩ
Ɵes and knowledge base to understand what oth- Earp, and Rawhide. I sƟll remember singing at the
ers were up to, even if it wasn’t explained to him top of my lungs with my sister Peg, the WyaƩ
and even if he didn’t have the precise vocabulary Earp theme song, lauding him as “brave, coura-
for what he was observing. geous, and bold.” That’s what I wanted to be, too:
brave, courageous, and bold. I wanted a horse
AŌer that day I bought him swords—also plas- and holster with a pistol in each pocket. Even
Ɵc— and when he went to a Renaissance fair with though Peg was a liƩle younger than I was she
a friend’s family, I didn’t object that he’d used the watched westerns with me, and over and over in
money he’d been given for a treat or a souvenir, my childhood I remember my mother telling the
to buy a very fancy plasƟc sword that came with a story of bringing our new baby brother home
scabbard. For a long Ɵme though, I didn’t buy him from the hospital, quoƟng what Peg had said
a toy gun, not unƟl he discovered a rubber band when she’d first laid eyes upon him. “Him’s nose
gun at a Maine flea market. Something about that looks like a liƩle cowboy’s.” I’d been vigilant
gun being made of wood and obviously hand- about monitoring my son’s television and movie
made for a parƟcular liƩle boy’s play, made it viewing whereas my parents had not been with
seem more benign. And not long aŌer that he me, and I had turned out all right. But the world
wanted a water pistol for backyard play, and I had changed considerably since my childhood, I
gave into that, too—even a giganƟc water gun told myself.
with a big tank aƩached to it—puƫng up with the
muddy clothes that had to be washed aŌer he got In general I also tried to stay away from purchas-
a good soaking in an energeƟc water baƩle. ing toys that marketed pop culture—spinoffs
from films and television series—at least for a
I didn’t finally give in to this sword and gunplay while. But as he got older and had many friends
just because he was able to comprehend the rea- and playmates, Gianni discovered Star Wars, Star
soning behind my objecƟons or because I knew Trek, Might Morphen Power Rangers, and on and
that censorship could not hold, since in life he on. But unƟl he was five I’d mistakenly thought
would have to learn to make his own choices and that the Boston PBS staƟon was the only televi-
as a parent I should be encouraging that. I al- sion he was watching: Barney, Arthur, Bill Nigh
lowed this play long before Gianni had reached the Science Guy, Sesame Street, Where in the
the age of reason, realizing the impossibility of World is Carmen San Diego, and Julia Child. From
trying to protect him from what I thought would watching Julia’s cooking show he became clever
have the effect of making violence seem ordinary. at doing an impression of her. My censoring of
I was admiƫng that violence—and play at being Gianni’s TV watching was not to conƟnue,
violent— permeated our culture and for this rea- though. I became aware that he had been watch-
son my efforts to shield him from it were fuƟle. ing programs other than those public television
But there were other reasons, too, I would learn, ones on different channels at a neighborhood
to allow these kinds of toys to be part of his play. friend’s house, when he asked me one aŌernoon

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Adelaide Magazine

if we could get one of those TVs that had other War. I had begun to realize that countries became
staƟons, like the one at his friend Alex’s house. involved in war not necessarily for humanitarian
And so I let my television viewing rule lapse. reasons, though their purpose someƟmes mas-
queraded that way. Not all tyrants who wanted
I was a post World War II baby, born smack in the control of a populaƟon as Hitler did in the Second
middle of the twenƟeth century. On both sides of World War were successfully deposed either. And
my family military service was limited. My father countries oŌen engaged in such conflicts over
and his brother had remained on the home front territory and resources, and many wars leŌ worst
during the War because of poor eyesight. Alt- situaƟons in their wake. By the Ɵme my brother
hough my dad was probably already suffering had reached the age when he’d have been ex-
from night blindness by the Ɵme he’d have been pected to serve in the military, the Vietnam War
conscripted into the Army, he did however see was over, the DraŌ ended, and he, as many of our
well enough to hold a day job at the Charlestown generaƟon, had no interest whatsoever in becom-
(MA) Navy Yard, as a skilled machinist, a toolmak- ing a soldier. It was what I learned from Vietnam
er with expert manual dexterity. He was the son that made me struggle to raise my son to be a
of an immigrant from Sicily who became an Amer- thoughƞul and peace-loving man.
ican ciƟzen and right aŌer, was draŌed to serve in
the First World War; lucky for my grandfather, When Gianni was about eight years old we visited
the ArmisƟce was signed just as he was on a bus a long-Ɵme friend of mine in another city. My
headed to basic training. husband and I sat talking with Maura in the kitch-
en of her home as she made coffee drinks for us,
My mother’s only brother had died in infancy, so showing off her new espresso maker. Gianni went
she didn’t have a sibling who’d served in the mili- off upstairs to play with her sons and their
tary during the Second World War either. Her friends.
sister Sally—the only one of her two sisters who
had children—six of them: three boys and three Maura lived in a big Victorian house. Across from
girls—wouldn’t allow my cousins to have toy the main entrance there was a central staircase
guns. As I grew older I realized that most likely leading to the upstairs bedrooms, which were off
she’d forbidden them to play sƟck ‘em up or War a long hall. Another staircase at the back end of
because her husband had served in the U.S. Ma- the hall led downstairs into the kitchen. As we
rine Corps during WWII as a rifle instructor, so she talked there, we could hear a good deal of move-
knew the toll the war had taken on him and on ment overhead, and then suddenly, appearing
his friends and family who’d served. My own seemingly out of nowhere, one of Maura’s sons
mother though didn’t ban toy guns in our house. landed in the kitchen aŌer flying down the back
My brother, born in 1956, was the last of her four stairway. I hadn’t realized the layout of the house
children. But even before he was old enough for with the second staircase in the kitchen unƟl he’d
play, my sisters Peg, Kate, and I had water and appeared.
cap guns—and even when we misplaced or lost
our toy pistols, we would take our liƩle boxes of He was toƟng a very real-looking rifle and appar-
rolls of caps out to the backyard and unravel and ently aƩempƟng to escape the opposing facƟon
smash the red strips with rocks or pieces of brick, chasing him. They were playing IRA. Maura was
causing liƩle explosions. born in Ireland.

As I grew older though, I would understand first I was surprised to see him with a rifle—toy or
hand the cost of war and violence. As someone not—knowing Maura’s associaƟon with mutual
who came of age in the 1960s, aŌer graduaƟng friends who were Quakers and community peace
from high school, knowing that young men who’d acƟvists.
been my classmates for years were dying in Vi-
etnam, or returning from service afflicted with “You let them have guns?” I said.
physical and mental disabiliƟes as a result, I
became involved in anƟ-war protests to end the Maura then described how it had come about
that she’d relaxed her rule of no guns, allowing
her sons to be engaged in war play with toy rifles.
She vividly described the physical injuries they’d

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Revista Adelaide

visited upon each other before she allowed the where there was a sign for bait, hunƟng, and oth-
guns to be introduced into their play. She’d made er services. The organizer of the shooƟng party
many trips to the ER, she said, to have their cuts went inside to pick up a key. There was no one
sƟtched up and their broken bones set. there, but he’d made arrangements and found it.
Geƫng back into his vehicle, he drove them down
“I was in the ER with them all the Ɵme.” a dirt road, stopped at a gate to get out to unlock
it, and got back in the truck and drove in.
She explained that it was our peace acƟvist friend
who was involved in Campus Ministry in the city, “It was a totally empty hillside, basically a couple
who’d made the suggesƟon that she ought to of buildings and some concrete seats and tables.
allow them to have toy guns. They would stop There were boards and stuff up to shoot on the
beaƟng each other up if they could play at pre- hillside,” my son explained. “It was in the middle
tend conflicts, he’d told her. She was happy to of fucking nowhere. Probably on the east coast
say, he’d been right. there has to be someone there, legally. The laws
are probably very regulated.”
The incident at Maura’s house only came back to
me recently, when Gianni, now twenty-six years I wanted to know what kind of guns they used,
old, returned from a wedding he’d gone to in Wis- where they got them, and learned that the organ-
consin, of friends he’d met while teaching English izer of this party had brought his own guns—a lot
in South Korea for a couple of years aŌer college. of guns.
When he came back from the Midwest, I asked
him about his trip. “There were a bunch of hand guns; Glocks, a re-
volver. There were a bunch of A15’s, technically
The night before the wedding, he told me, there’d assault rifles, and what looked like a hunƟng rifle,
been a bachelor party that seemed unusual to but you don’t have to cock it each Ɵme.” The
me. It wasn’t a drunken revel with a teasing ex- hunƟng rifle had been modified, so it was semi-
oƟc dancer or a real stripper for entertainment, automaƟc.
like those I’d heard of, or any such celebraƟon of
his friend’s last night as a single man. The groom It seemed to me that that was a lot of weaponry
had chosen to have a shooƟng party instead; for one guy to have, but Gianni defended him.
they’d gone to a makeshiŌ shooƟng range and
they’d taken turns, Gianni included, firing off an “He was an enthusiast,” he said, “not someone
assortment of guns and rifles. who got guns to protect himself, but someone
who liked to go to a gun range, do target prac-
“What was that like?” I asked, more than a liƩle Ɵce.” His assessment was that he was “a hobby-
surprised. ist” and he compared him to “someone who gets
into bowling. They get a nice ball. They get bowl-
His answer surprised me more than the event ing shoes, a hand guard, a wrist thing.”
itself.
I asked about the others who were at the bache-
“I loved it!” he said. lor party.

He sounded elated all over again, telling me “Everyone was preƩy nice,” he said. “And the guy
about it. who organized it was one of the nicest people. He
showed us all the safety stuff and was preƩy dili-
So the next Ɵme we got together we talked at gent about everything, so it was nice. We were
length about the bachelor party. just shooƟng some stuff. Like target pracƟce. It
was interesƟng. I’d never shot a gun before. I did-
I got the details that a college friend of the n’t grow up in a place where people adverƟse
groom, who was also the disc jockey for the wed- having guns or where people seemed to have a
ding recepƟon, had organized it. lot of guns.”

The shooƟng range had not been what Gianni had What I was mainly interested in hearing Gianni
expected. He’d thought it would be “a real one,” talk about was how it actually felt to hold those
like what he’d seen on “TV shows—cop shows, guns, to fire them—real guns, not toys, and not
and stuff.” But they had stopped at a gas staƟon

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Adelaide Magazine

computer video game guns—and I wanted to He went on, emphasizing his point, because I was
know if he’d tried out all of the guns, including sƟll surprised.
the AR15.
“I play a lot of video games, shoot a lot of things
“I shot the Glock. And I shot the hunƟng rifle in video games, but it’s not the same at all be-
thing—there was not a lot of kickback on it.” cause in shooƟng a gun, you feel a small explo-
sion happening right next to you. Video games
That surprised him, but he’d been frightened by it are not real. You can’t actually equate video
nevertheless. games to anything real.”

“I thought the most scary part was how loud it I felt from Gianni’s descripƟon of the physicality
was. It wasn’t really scary to shoot but there was of the act, that he certainly understood and re-
no silencer for the hunƟng rifle.” spected the destrucƟve potenƟal of using those
guns—the fact that the guns at the bachelor party
They only had disposable earplugs, since no one were designed as weapons—and that his experi-
was running this shooƟng range and more protec- ence that day had reinforced for him what he
Ɵve ear cuffs could not be rented. Only the organ- already knew, that toy gun and video game play
izer had brought his own. scenarios should be seen as ficƟon and nothing
more. Determined to be a parent who was en-
Gianni chose not to shoot the AR15. “It was so gaged in her son’s behavioral development, I had
loud,” he said, “and I felt that it was like too ignored the fact that there is no definiƟve scien-
much. I didn’t want to do that. I felt that if I’d had Ɵfic evidence that this kind of play would lead
it in my hands it would be like shaking my whole him to future violent acts, even though poliƟcians
body.” and gun enthusiasts alike make these claims. The
NRA has funded poliƟcal campaigns that would
This made me consider why the leader of this consistently oppose further regulaƟon of gun
shooƟng party would even own such weapons, sales. They have successfully eliminated the ban
and I also wondered about the others in the on assault weapons, and recently prevented a
group who might have shot that assault rifle, ban on bump stocks. Yet they brought out Vice
whether they were big guys, bigger than Gianni, President Wayne La Pierre to speak at a press
who is almost six feet tall and a preƩy solid guy. conference one week aŌer the shooƟng at Sandy
But no, he said. Hook Elementary. He said, “Guns don’t kill peo-
ple, video games, the media, and Obama’s budget
“They were the same size as me. But they were all kill people.” He went on to say that “There exists
from Wisconsin. They don’t have that gun and in this country, sadly, a callous, corrupt, and cor-
some of them didn’t seem that involved in gun rupƟng shadow industry that sells and stows vio-
culture either. Maybe they hunted with their un- lence against its own people through vicious, vio-
cle or their father. The only one who had a lot of lent video games…” (Mother Jones, Erik Kaine:
guns,” he said, “was the guy who brought us “The Truth About Video Games and Gun Vio-
there. He had a 20 round clip for his gun, which lence,” June 11, 2013)
I’m preƩy sure is illegal in MassachuseƩs.”

Just as I had mistakenly thought when Gianni was
younger, that allowing him to have toy guns
would pre-dispose him to an acceptance of vio-
lence in our culture, I was wondering whether
having been a serious player of video games for
years made him more comfortable with the idea
of shooƟng real guns, than he might have been
otherwise. He was quick to answer.

“I’ve never shot a gun before, but I’ve shot a mil-
lion fake guns in video games and it hasn’t affect-
ed me. It was just as surprising and kind of scary
shooƟng real ones, as if I’d never played a video
game before.”

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About the Author:
Mary Bonina is author of the memoir My Father’s
Eyes (2013) and three poetry collecƟons— Clear
Eye Tea (2010), Living Proof (2007), and Lunch in
Chinatown (finalist, Teacher’s Voice chapbook
compeƟƟon). She won the Boston Contemporary
AuthorsUrbanArts Award for “DriŌ,” now a per-
manent public art installaƟon, the poem carved in
a granite monolith outside the Green St. subway
staƟon. Commissioned by composer Paul Sayed,
her three poems, Grace in the Wind inspired
Sayed’s composiƟon for piano, cello, and soprano
which premiered at Longy School of Music, Bard
College, Cambridge, MassachuseƩs, November
2012. Bonina’s poetry and prose credits in-
clude Salamander, English Journal, Red Brick Re-
view, Muddy River Review, Gulf Stream, and
many other journals and three anthologies includ-
ing Voices of the City from Rutgers University
Center for Ethnicity, Culture, and Modern Experi-
ence with Hanging Loose Press, and Entering the
Real World: VCCA Poets on Mt. Angelo. “Our Mu-
tual Landscape,” Bonina’s personal essay/memoir
on the work of poet Christopher Gilbert and his
community of poets in the 1970s appeared in
the Worcester Review, an annual (2013). Bonina
serves on the Board of the Writers’ Room of Bos-
ton, Inc. She earned her MFA at the Warren Wil-
son Program for Writers.
hƩp://www.marybonina.com

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HOMELESS

by Fabrizia FausƟnella

I was working out on the second floor of the gym, When I leŌ the gym, I drove right next to the bus
where all the machines are. I was desperate to stop. There was no traffic. It was Labor Day. I
maintain good muscle tone, even if I didn’t seem slowed down and looked at him but his eyes were
to be geneƟcally giŌed in that department. From closed. I saw a crunched, empty plasƟc boƩle in
the large windows that looked upon the street the pocket of the scrubs. Nothing to drink any-
and a beauƟful green park on the outskirts of the more, nothing to eat. I stopped by the nearest
medical center, I saw a man siƫng at the bus fast food place and picked up meal combo #3, a
stop. He was siƫng inside the bus stop shelter on bacon cheeseburger with fries and a regular Coke.
one of those hard benches, leaning forward with I always tell my paƟents not to drink regular so-
his head between his hands. He was wearing light das, but I wasn’t going to restrict the caloric in-
-blue paper scrubs, stained and worn out. He was take of this man. Given the circumstances, that
barefoot. I saw a pair of flip-flops on the ground would have been dumb, I thought. But then
right next to him, but he wasn’t wearing them, his again, what if he had diabetes? SomeƟmes there
feet too swollen to be comfortable in them. He is no winning…
looked exhausted and emaciated. A homeless
man in his sixƟes or fiŌies, with nothing at all. I drove back and stopped in front of the bus stop.
Usually they have a couple of plasƟc bags or even “Hey, sir! Sir!” He opened up his eyes and smiled
a small suitcase or a grocery cart. He had nothing. at me. I said, “I have some food for you.”

As I conƟnued my workout, going from machine He said, “I’m hungry, thank you.” He slowly stood
to machine, my eyes kept on looking in his direc- up from the bench. He was unsteady on his feet,
Ɵon. His hair and beard were ruffled. He looked and I became afraid that he would fall.
like he could have been from Jamaica or from an
island. I thought he had that kind of look to him, I said, “Take it easy. Be careful.” He took a few
but who knows. I realized what I was doing. I was steps and got to the car, to the window on the
doing what I usually do when I see people with no passenger’s side. He held on to the door, and I
home: I wonder how the whole thing started, saw he was missing two fingers from his right
since the day they were born. How did he end up hand. It must have been an old injury, as there
on that bench with nothing at all? Did he ever were no visible scars anymore, no swelling, no
have a home? Where was he from? What did he evidence of recent trauma. I looked at him,
do in his younger years? Did he go to school, did straight into his eyes, and that is exactly what he
he ever have a job? A family? What about his par- was doing, looking at me, straight into my eyes.
ents? Was he ever loved? Could he hold onto the His eyes were warm and deep. So what happened
memory of that love? Life is hard as it is. To go to him? I thought.
through it without any love, it must be unbeara-
ble. He asked me, “What’s your name?”

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“My name is B. What’s yours?” fact that we are all we have and that we’re all in it
together, then we would look at each other
“Earl.” differently and see beyond the colors, the reli-
gions, the tribes, the ethnicity, beyond the super-
“Harold?” ficial differences. We would be able to see the
core, which is the same for everybody, every-
“No, Earl, E-A-R-L. Earl.” where. We would see that all we need is love and
acceptance and a more humane life.
“Okay, Mr. Earl. Here, some food for you and a
Coke and a boƩle of water…” That was my water Mr. Earl was yet another casualty of the system.
from the gym, but as I failed to get water from He was out in the streets; he was parked on the
the fast food restaurant, I thought it would have sidewalk like an old, useless piece of furniture.
been okay for him to drink out of it, as I don’t Poor Mr. Earl. Sorry, we are not able to save you,
have any transmissible disease, and the water to spare you from all your trials and tribulaƟons,
was good and cold and beƩer than nothing in the and treat you with the respect you deserve as a
scorching heat of late summer. human being, as a member of our society of hu-
mans, a society that is not always humane. There
He slowly took everything and I was concerned must be a way, a beƩer way. There must be a way
that he would lose his balance. I gave him some to help the underserved and the unfortunate that
money as well. He didn’t ask for it, but I thought, goes beyond the efforts of a few good ciƟzens
How is he going to get his next meal? I said, “Be and a few good insƟtuƟons. Society can’t be sav-
careful,” and he said, “I will.” I waited for him to age at heart and let so many of her children go
reach the bench again, which was only a few feet neglected and abandoned.
away. He did and sat down aŌer stumbling a cou-
ple of Ɵmes. I took a deep breath of relief. The About the Author:
last thing I wanted was for this man to fall and
break something as he was trying to get the food I Fabrizia FausƟnella is a physician. She grew up
brought him. in Italy and moved to the United States to do re-
search in human geneƟcs. Currently, she pracƟces
I said, “Take care, Mr. Earl, be careful.” He smiled as an internist in the Texas Medical Center in
wide, all front teeth missing. He’s not going to last Houston. Her profession has added depth and
very long out there, I thought. He’s too weak. He’s breadth to her human experience and has en-
obviously been in a hospital at some point in Ɵme, riched her life to a great degree. She has pub-
where he must have goƩen the scrubs. He will lished numerous research arƟcles and, more re-
pass out on a sidewalk sooner or later, out of cently, she’s been inspired to write about her
weakness from not eaƟng and dehydraƟon. Right experiences in medicine in a number of paƟent-
next to the biggest medical center in the world. centered essays. Her many interests and hobbies
Right in the middle of a major metropolis. Sur- include acƟng, gourmet cooking, gardening, trav-
rounded by civilizaƟon. He will get dehydrated, eling, and playing the piano. She is an avid reader
starve, and die right in the middle of so much rich- and loves to stay physically acƟve through danc-
ness and waste. How is this possible? ing and regular exercise.

I drove home and could not stop thinking of him.
Later that evening I saw a post on Facebook say-
ing that things in life happen for a reason. Really?
What’s the reason behind Mr. Earl’s demise?
There are reasons why things happen, but no,
things don’t happen for a reason. There are no
reasons at all, I thought. There is so much misery
all around us, how can people truly believe that
things happen for a reason? Maybe that’s a
mechanism of survival, a way to make sense of
the disappointments and the hardships that we
all go through in our lives. Human beings have
a strong survival insƟnct and if they accepted the

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Adelaide Magazine

COMPETITION

by Sylvia Semel

This is about compeƟƟon between mulƟples as Comparing one twin to the other encourages
well as other children. compeƟƟon, and twins are already overwhelmed
by compeƟƟon. They compete for their parents'
IntroducƟon love, acceptance, approval, aƩenƟon, and Ɵme.
And they're in compeƟƟon over intellect, school
My brother and I are opposite-sex fraternal grades, popularity, and appearance.
twins. I would like to share my experience being a
twin, discuss the unique problems of twins, My parents and well-meaning relaƟves would
and suggest ways to solve those problems. inadvertently and constantly compare us, which
resulted in me wanƟng to beat my twin at every-
The problems of twins apply to other mulƟples thing. I needed to excel, but of more importance,
and to singletons especially singletons who I needed to do beƩer than my brother. An exam-
are one year apart. The closer in age children are ple of this was report cards. I felt less anxious and
the greater the compeƟƟon. A child who's six more confident if I received more A's than my
years younger or older than other siblings is brother.
raised like an only child.
Please eliminate comparisons, or at least lessen
Raising a child is a formidable task but raising how oŌen you make them.
twins is daunƟng. The more informaƟon parents
have, the more power they have. The more flexi- Help from the Mother
ble their approach to parenƟng, the more opƟons
they haveWith any relaƟonship come conflict and Instead of validaƟng myself, I would expect my
change. Parents need to make their twins aware mother to validate me. I would repeatedly ask
of this before teaching them the basics of conflict her, “Am I smarter than my brother?”
resoluƟon.
A response that can decrease compeƟƟveness is,
Parents Please Eliminate Comparisons “I can't compare you to your brother or to anyone
else because you're unique. And I love you for
CompeƟƟon being you. You're extremely smart. You do know
that without having to ask me, don't you?”
CompeƟng with Your Twin
Because you've told your twin daughter how you
I felt intense compeƟƟon with my twin even feel about her without comparing her to her twin,
though we are opposite sex twins. Parents mean you've encouraged her to move towards separa-
well, but they tend to compare one twin to the Ɵon and independence. And you've also encour-
other. “You're good at math, but your brother's aged her to answer her quesƟon without your
beƩer at history.” Or, “You're more outgoing than help, further encouraging independence.
your brother.”

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Revista Adelaide

Twins in the Same Classroom: CompeƟƟon at “If she feels well enough,” the doctor responded.
School But I didn't feel well enough, and I was disap-
pointed that I couldn't go on that trip. But I was
In fourth grade my brother and I were put in the also relieved.
same classroom. We had previously shared the
kindergarten class but had different teachers in My parents thought that the flu had psychoso-
first through third grades. maƟc roots; a defense brought on by fear of dis-
appoinƟng Ernie and subsequently being rejected
The principal was conducƟng an experiment. He by him. That’s a possibility, but we’ll never know.
wanted an answer to the following quesƟon: is it
beneficial for twins to be in the same classroom? It would have been worthwhile if my parents had
He suggested to my parents that my brother and I had a discussion with me about my fear of rejec-
be put in the same classroom, so that quesƟon Ɵon. I could have worked on both my self-
could be answered. My parents respected his confidence and anxiety issues which were Ɵed in
educaƟonal status and allowed it. together.

How Did I React to Sharing a Classroom with My Although Ernie was hurt that the girl he had a
Twin Brother? crush on didn't ride in his mother's car with him
on that school trip, he recovered, and we re-
That year was torture. I had been an angry child, mained friends.
but during that year I became an enraged child. I
had enough compeƟƟon and sharing at home. I How Did My Twin Brother React to Sharing a
didn't want to compete with my brother at Classroom with Me?
school, too. And I wanted to be my own person,
the individual that I was, and not be known as so My brother had a difficult year, too. He couldn't
and so's twin sister. deal with the discomfort of twinship, a term I've
coined which refers to the twin relaƟonship. His
Ernie, a cute classmate, and my teacher, helped defense was to ignore me and pretend I didn't
me get through that year. Ernie had a crush on exist. That hurt!
me (which was reciprocated by me), and I was
one of the teacher’s favorite students. They both It proved to be detrimental to put us in the same
offered a diversion from my anger as well as a classroom.
boost to my floundering ego.
Helpful Parents
When our class was going on a trip, Ernie's moth-
er volunteered to drive some of the students. The Here's where my parents could have intervened
teacher asked the students whose parents were to help my brother:
driving to choose who they wanted to go in the
car with them. Ernie picked me first. To try to change that defense to a healthier one
before it's incorporated into the defense system
At first, I was elated. Then anxiety set in. “What if and becomes a paƩern that generalizes to all rela-
I disappointed Ernie, and he didn't like me aŌer Ɵonships; that is, if you feel uncomfortable with
the trip?”, I pondered. I allowed anxiety to control conflicƟng feelings towards someone, withdraw
me. and ignore.

Where was my self-confidence? I was unaware of Every twin is unique, and how other twins react
the thought processes (most likely caused by low can be the opposite of how we reacted.
self-esteem) that began early in my life, which
evoked anxiety and caused me to avoid anxious A Discussion with Your Twins about Sharing a
situaƟons. Classroom

As it turns out, I caught a cold, and the doctor had A discussion with each twin separately and then
to make a house call. I remember my mother ask- together might provide the answer about sharing
ing him, “Can she go on the trip?” a classroom. For instance, you can ask your
daughter, “I'd like to know how you would feel
being in the same classroom as your brother?”

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Your quesƟon encourages your daughter to dis- About the Author:
cuss her feelings and gives her opƟons. She's
learning to feel and express emoƟons in a healthy Sylvia Semel has self-published four books: No
way. More Roommates; No More DaƟng; No More Sex,
Being a Twin: What Parents Need to Know About
Ask your son the same quesƟon, and then en- Their Twins, AbsurdiƟes: A Mature Woman's Dia-
courage the twins to discuss their feelings on this ry, Poems You'll Love: A CollecƟon of Lyric Poems
topic with each other. and Haiku. A graduate of the University of Penn-
sylvania, she has wriƩen numerous flash ficƟon
Twins share enough Ɵme and space. They don't and nonficƟon stories, some of which have been
need to be in the same classroom. If they're not published.
together, they can't compete.

Summary

There's intense compeƟƟon between twins.

Minimize compeƟƟon by not making compari-
sons.

Don't allow school administrators to dictate
school policies that may be detrimental to your
twins.

Teach your twins to be aware of their feelings.

Stop unhealthy thought processes and acƟons
before they become a permanent part of your
twin's behavior.

Let your twins' opinions count

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Revista Adelaide

ENTERTAINMENT

by Donald Dewey

A friend asked recently if I had seen such-and- that mean keeping up with some new social dy-
such a movie. I said no, and wasn’t really in that namic, some new arƟsƟc genius, some new line in
much of a hurry to see it. He looked at me wide- cocktail party chaƩer, or all of the above. Kill a
eyed and asked why not; it had received intri- few hours? Have a buffer with a new date?
guing enough reviews, hadn’t it? I said it was be- Mount a front for somebody? Feel less lonely? All
cause I had seen something else the day before handy moƟves for patronizing screens, stages,
and was sƟll savoring that one. The eyes went and orchestras.
from wide to the lidless black puddles of those
aliens that walk off mother ships in Steven Spiel- But over and above the reason for a given enter-
berg producƟons. Well, that was hardly a reason tainment is the arc --- the noƟon, long elevated to
not to see the movie he was talking about, was it? cultural assumpƟon, that any single entertain-
I said yes, it was. If I sat down in a restaurant and ment is only as good as its place in an ongoing
chose a meal that filled me saƟsfactorily, I would- series of aƩracƟons, that every pleasure (and
n’t immediately grab the menu and order another irritaƟon) is mere prelude. One of the more obvi-
meal, would I? Same thing in going to the movies. ous examples of this is the soap opera, which al-
Let the taste of the one I’d seen linger for awhile. lows us to order our daily lives by the grotesque
Why blot it out immediately with something else? disorder of other lives. Then there’s the arc of the
prime Ɵme series that permits us to watch typical
I could tell from my friend’s expression that I had Jacks and Jills with Magnums and smart repartee
violated the prime direcƟve about being enter- morph over months into demons, extraterrestri-
tained; to wit, never stop going from movie to als, or other enƟƟes that turn out never to have
play to TV program to ballgame and then back actually existed outside nightmares in the first
again to the ballet, the opera, and the new read- place. And let’s not forget the arc of the evening
ing series at the library before starƟng the cycle weatherman as he traces for us the birth of a
all over again. Or if you’re a specialist in the field, breeze named Walter off Bali, its growth through
as he was, exploit the mulƟ part of the local mul- hurricane stages off coasts we never heard of, its
Ɵplex as swiŌly as possible, preferably between menacing of North Carolina ships lighter than two
the openings on one Friday and those the follow- tons, and, finally, its evaporaƟon into the mist off
ing Friday. Don’t let the impact of any parƟcular Newfoundland. Ah, well, on to the breeze named
film interrupt the rouƟne. Did I truly have to be Xanadu. Every good story needs a beginning, a
reminded that the 9-to-5 porƟon of our lives is no middle, an end --- and another beginning.
more important than the 7:30-to-10:30 part?
Compared to our need for the ever-lengthening
There are, of course, slews of raƟonalizaƟons for arc, Noah personified modesty in selecƟng only
the mania to be conƟnually entertained, some of two of every mortal species for insuring survival.
them sounding almost pracƟcal. One favorite is On the other hand, there is the striking similarity
that this is the only way of keeping up --- whether that the starƟng point in both cases is catastro-
phe --- in Noah’s case the flood, in ours boredom.

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Adelaide Magazine

Neither clocks nor calendars can be entrusted About the Author:
with the relief task; they are reminders of the
problem, not soluƟons to it. We need our dis- Donald Dewey has published some 40 books of
tracƟng stories, and the most important of these ficƟon and nonficƟon, contributed scores of sto-
is the one about avoiding the banaliƟes around ries to magazines and other periodicals, and had
us. Do you really prefer talking about some neigh- some 30 plays staged in the United States and
bor or co-worker to the latest adventures of Europe.
George Clooney or of one of the Kates? The law is
the order, even in reruns. How else are we ever
going to get into forensic labs, whether operated
by the police, the Navy, or a top-secret govern-
ment agency? Did we really ever believe that the
cachet of the serial killer plot was the killer part?

The issue here is not the rush for graƟficaƟon;
lions exhibit that every Ɵme they see a gazelle
bound across the plain. It’s not even the societal
thrust of that rush; that could have been dis-
cerned back when a drummer was taking the
edge off another hard day for his fellow cavemen.
Where our addicƟon for graƟficaƟon disƟn-
guishes itself is in the reliability and predictability
of the resources for meeƟng it. The medium is us.

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Revista Adelaide

TITAN

by EllioƩ Vincent Flood

Roughly fiŌy miles east of Denver lies the small the hill. Double checking our flashlights and
highway community of Deer Trail, Colorado. It is puƫng on our dust masks, we approach the
the kind of town that you would hardly noƟce yawning portal. We step into an immediately cool
passing through. A few gas staƟons and a small and dark world, one inhabited by juvenile graffiƟ
neighborhood comprise the majority of the town. and half burned maƩresses. A long corridor ex-
We turned on to a small dirt road just north of tends in front of us, ever darkening. We exchange
the town. The deep blue sky was pock marked glances and begin to make our way down the
with countless clouds and a sƟff wind was blow- gullet of the structure.
ing. We rumbled down a dusty road, cuƫng
through the vast, golden farmland and as we As we make our way down the musty path, the
crested a small hill, our desƟnaƟon came into light from the outside world begins to fade rapid-
view. Looking through binoculars, I saw a double ly. We switch on our flashlights, relegaƟng our
wide trailer, several broken down cars, and a vision to what the small circles of light can illumi-
small metal shed. As I panned the landscaped, nate. The sounds of dripping water echo through
strange concrete structures came into view. Large the hallway, their source undeterminable. We
disc like shapes doƩed the farmland randomly. I slowly conƟnue and another large opening begins
place the binoculars into my satchel and the three to materialize out of the blackness. Through the
of us began to make our way towards the farm. opening we step into a gargantuan room. It ex-
pands roughly two hundred yards out in front of
The Titan Missile Program was developed by the us, like a soundstage from a cheap science ficƟon
federal government in the late fiŌies. It was a film, with ceilings reaching a few hundred feet
series of nuclear warhead launch site scaƩered above. We realize that we are standing on a large
around the country, just in case the United States metal plaƞorm that circles the room about twen-
had to aƩack Russia. The remnants of one of ty feet above the ground. We shine our lights
these monstrous underground faciliƟes sƟll exists across the room, but the beams dissipate, not
just outside of Deer Trail. We stealthily approach strong enough to reach the other side. We are in
a small cluster of hills, being cauƟous to not alert awe of the sheer size of the space. We whistle
the landowner. Stories of people being shot with and clap, listening to the echoes. The air is sƟll
rock salt loaded into shotgun shells were fresh in cool and musty, but now a certain dampness is
our minds. We top the small hill and begin to walk more noƟceable and I get the sensaƟon that we
down into a depression in the earth. are in the chest cavity of some great biblical
whale. We clamber slowly across the rusted metal
The first thing I noƟce is the trash. StarƟng about plaƞorm, taking care not cut our selves or to
halfway down the hill a trail of dust masks, beer stand on a weak spot and fall through. As we fol-
boƩles, and spent spray paint cans become ap- low the circular path, we come to a dilapidated
parent. We follow the refuse down and discover staircase that winds down into the endless dark.
a large, cave-like concrete opening in the side of

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Adelaide Magazine

Much like the surrounding metal structures, the handle of the hatch and with some persistence
staircase sags with neglect. What was once sturdy and struggle, it creakingly turns. A sudden wave
metal has given way to the ever-encroaching of heat hits us as our eyes slowly adjust to the
presence of that flaky brown scarring that indi- punishing bright and the disƟnct smell of fresh air
cates the earth has come to reclaim its territory. fills our nostrils.
With a gloved hand, I brush the railing of the
stairs and watch the metal flakes fluƩer down We emerge to find ourselves in the middle of an
into a yellowish pool. The inevitability of rust. We enormous brown grass field. On the surface, we
find the boƩom of the massive room and walk are back in the present. The colossal relic of
out into the center of the floor. It is a twisƟng man’s lust for destrucƟon lies below us, being
field of labyrinthian pipes and grates. I can now slowly destroyed by the churning earth and the
make out mulƟple large tunnel openings that dot passing Ɵme. In the distance we can see the out-
the surrounding wall. Gateways to untold depths line of the farm where we began our journey.
in the earth, barely visible. Basking in the sunlight and must-free air, we re-
move our masks and share a boƩle of cool water.
We discuss our opƟons and elect to venture down On the surface, the subterranean leviathan is
one of the tunnels. The interior of the giant tube completely unnoƟceable, save the outline of the
is much like the hulking room we leŌ, save for the concrete hatch. A secret world lying beneath the
damp earth in place of an iron floor. The rust has roots of rolling farmland, where rust thrives and
found its way here as well; the oxygen and mois- decay is rampant. Standing in the field, I get the
ture working in unison to slowly unravel the fabric feeling that human advances are so interim, so
of the complex underground structure. As we minor in the face of nature. We gather our few
advance down the tunnel, not knowing what we things and begin to walk back toward the car, well
will uncover, I consider that this facility was once out of sight of the landowners. I wonder what the
the pinnacle of human technological develop- depths of the missile silo will look like in one hun-
ment, one large enclosed system, humming with dred years, a century of oxygen and moisture. I
synchronicity. Early computers, closely monitored picture the earth slowly digesƟng, eventually
by mathemaƟcians, working seamlessly with leaving no trace. As we load the car and begin
physicists and chemists to ensure that the liquid down the dirt road towards Deer Trail, I marvel at
fueled rockets were primed in case of a required how all the advancements of humankind eventu-
launch. All being overseen by military engineers ally fall vicƟm to the maw of Ɵme.
and higher officials. All in the name of potenƟal
war paranoia. Now, as we approach the end of About the Author:
the dank tunnel, all that means nothing. This mis-
sile silo is now roƫng back into the core of the EllioƩ Vincent Flood graduated from the MSU
earth, forgoƩen like some high school science Denver WriƟng Program. He grew up in AusƟn, TX
project relegated to the aƫc as a keepsake. and spends much of his Ɵme aƩempƟng to ex-
plore the less traveled parts of the world and put
The tunnel dead ends into a looming verƟcal shaŌ it down on paper. He is perpetually at work on
that has a small seam of light emanaƟng from the various wriƟng projects and this is his first pub-
top, barely visible. Another crumbling staircase lished story.
sits on the opposing wall, beckoning us to use it,
like an old man who wants to prove he is sƟll ca-
pable of doing his job. We take the staircase’s
invitaƟon and slowly clang up each step. The
presence of moisture has subsided the rust has
seemingly been held at bay, temporarily at best.
With every step upward, we noƟce the tempera-
ture increasing and the seam of light has now
become quite visible. It outlines a small concrete
hatch with a solid metal hinge and a large handle.
We reach the top of the staircase and must
decide to go back or aƩempt the hatch. I pull the

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Revista Adelaide

TRACK CHANGES

by Sydney Samone Wright

I was in bed next to my boyfriend, Shola, wonder- ***
ing if he’d noƟced the slow changes in my body
since exiƟng the athleƟc performance world. I Pain. I had heard from someone back in Texas
did. I felt them, heavy with loss and light from that your body can handle pain, and when the
lack of purpose. Shola was a collegiate long jump- pain gets so intense that you can't tolerate it any-
er too and had a few years of eligibility leŌ. He more, you blackout. I didn't know if it was true,
was sƟll surrounded by the world that I wasn’t but I hoped it was. Because at that moment I was
surrounded by anymore, and I couldn’t help but on my eighth set of sprints with only fiŌeen sec-
wonder if he liked me as much now as he did onds leŌ of rest before the next sprint, and the
when I was sƟll an athlete. My body was chang- pain in my chest was so intense that I just wanted
ing. I was changing. I worried that his feelings it to end. My nose was burning from pulling in air
were changing too. Mine had. They’d become a so forcefully. My eyes burned from the sweat
mix of biƩerness and longing, like someone had catching in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't wipe
stolen something that was mine. it away because my hands were just as sweaty.

I’d been searching for something to fill the huge It was the end of August and I had only been on
chunk of my idenƟty that had disappeared as Memphis soil for a week. It was my first day of
soon as I’d jumped my final jump at the East Re- collegiate track and field pracƟce, and I'd been
gional Division I track meet in Florida. That was in told that the first month of pracƟce was labeled
the spring of 2016, over a year ago, and it was 'Hell Week' by the athletes. I hadn't expected
difficult to go from having a daily schedule made actual hell. It was over one-hundred-degree
for you and being around people with the same weather, not a cloud in the sky, the peak of the
goals, to having to find something new to fill that day, and I was quickly finding my exercise intensi-
space on your own. How would I replace the ty limit.
many short term goals I had every month to jump
so many inches farther, or make it to finals in a I was lying on my back in the grass, eyes closed,
certain track meet, or liŌ the heaviest dead liŌ praying for relief, heart pounding so quick it felt
weight in our jumps group? Where could I get like a puppy that'd goƩen into cupcakes was let
that adrenaline rush that came with the cheers of loose in my chest. The ground was so hard, the
my teammates, geƫng me excited to come out flat dry grass offering no cushion or comfort. The
on top at every compeƟƟon? I’d had the same atmosphere was filled with a symphony of pan-
template of goals for ten years. At this point, I felt icked inhales, and clipped exhales. That smell of
like I was walking around in the dark searching for the track complex that I associated with so many
something invisible. I felt like my family and good memories was currently nonexistent in my
friends were watching me and wondering where I mind. I wondered what I was really doing here.
would go from here, but I was staring at myself in Was the pain worth it? Was the reward worth
the mirror wondering the same thing. it? Then I felt a hand on my arm. It was Luis, the

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Adelaide Magazine

decathlete from Germany, and he was helping me again and I was grabbing his hand, thinking that I
to my feet, telling me I had to stand or I'd cramp was thankful I had a hand to help, and thinking
up. Telling me that I could do it, and so I kept run- about the days when I didn't.
ning.
***
Track had been a large part of my life for six years
and it had made me quesƟon a lot of things about I sat down with my dad in our living room. Our
myself: how much was I willing to sacrifice to house was old, built in Morgan, Texas someƟme
meet my goals? How much was I willing to between 1900 and 1925. From the state of it
change? Was being an athlete who I wanted to now, it hadn't ever been modernized. It was fully
be? What did it say about me if I chose that path? cement, a large two-story square dropped on the
I hadn't found any answers, but I was searching. I lower leŌ corner of an acre of land. The forest
was exploring. I was taking opportuniƟes as they green wooden balcony was slowly caving in and
came to me. Being a collegiate track and field the cellar filled with water like a tub every Ɵme it
athlete was one of those opportuniƟes, and it rained. We had moved there because it was the
took me out of Texas, my only home for nineteen only house in town big enough to fit our eight-
years, and brought me to this strange city of person family, as well as the only one we could
Memphis, Tennessee. afford. I was enchanted by the old house. With
my imaginaƟon, I walked through the paint
And now I was sprinƟng across flaƩened yellow chipped doors and envisioned something beauƟ-
grass, knowing I wasn't going to finish first but ful, a post-Victorian mansion. I believed with Ɵme
just trying to not finish last, telling myself you're we could fix it up. My room was the ‘haunted
almost there. You're almost there. I couldn't feel room’. White patches of paint were like puppies’
my legs anymore, but my chest was a furnace and spots on the walls and I had no overhead light,
my face was a squinted mess of pain. For some- just a lamp that cast shadow threads on the walls
thing that I had been doing for six years of my life, when the sun fell in the evening. It was the ghost
this atmosphere felt mostly foreign: the people, house of the town and our home for the next five
the locaƟon, the fact that I wasn't alone but sur- years.
rounded by athletes that were just as good or
beƩer. For the first Ɵme I began to quesƟon my I was in fiŌh grade and my dad felt it was Ɵme to
ability to do it. I was being pushed to my limit start thinking about my future. He didn't want me
every day, and I was afraid that one day I would to have to live in an old cement box like we were
need to push further than my limit. What if I was now, and we couldn’t afford to fix it up yet. So
doing the absolute best that I could do, and that while I had been posiƟve about living here at first,
sƟll wasn’t good enough? I was ready for something beƩer. Something new.
I would take whatever advice he could give and
My journey to this point had began on a similar run with it.
field behind our school, but I was usually alone. I
had only myself for any type of comparison be- "You're long and lanky," he told me. "With a lot of
cause I was the only one out on the track on a pracƟce, you can be really good. I know you like
Saturday trying to get to the State Meet. I was the basketball, but I think you've got a really good
only one who looked at track as something more chance with track." I asked him what he meant by
than an excuse to get out of class to travel to a 'chance'. He said, "A chance to get a free trip out
compeƟƟon. But here in Memphis, I wasn't alone. of here. College is your only Ɵcket, and sports is
There were a lot of things to compare and it was the way to get there. I can't pay for it, so you're
overwhelming at Ɵmes. going to have to work and get there on your
own."
As we finished the next set of runs with three
more to go, I was on the ground again, the coach- I was moƟvated. It was up to me. I was excited
es voice muffled like he was talking through a because I had always been fast. There was a Ɵme
towel. Twenty! He yelled, reminding me there in fourth grade where they had lined us all up on
was more pain to come and only a few seconds the track to race during P.E. class. I’d beaten all
leŌ of ground Ɵme. I squeezed my eyes shut and the girls, so they threw me in with all the guys.
my chest pumped up and down. Luis was there Race aŌer race flew by, and finally it was down to

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Revista Adelaide

me and one other boy: the star quarterback of I loved that those three guys would have that
the PeeWee football team. I beat him, even when picture of me and think of me years from now,
a bug flew into my eye halfway through the race. I the Morgan Track Star. I loved that that had be-
knew I was fast, but I didn't know the Ɵckets it come my idenƟfier and that people were so im-
could give me. I didn't know I could be rewarded pressed. It was like sugar on my tongue. People
for being faster than someone else, for jumping began to recognize me as not just another regular
further or higher than someone else. ciƟzen of another small town, but someone who
was doing something different. I was someone
I pracƟced and I pracƟced. I pulled Ɵres across who was breaking the hold that small towns seem
grass fields and up asphalt hills. I push-mowed an to have on many people.
acre of land every summer because my dad told
me it would help me go farther in long jump. I ***
was in the weight room during the week with
everyone else, and on the weekend alone. I was The process of geƫng noƟced by a division one
doing pull ups on a tree branch with my brother university is a lot harder than the actual work to
because we didn't have an actual bar. My dad and get the performances you need to be good
I weren't sure what would work, or if it would be enough to join their team. Especially when you’re
enough, but all we had was our hope. And the from one of the smallest high schools in one of
more I felt trapped in this small town of four hun- the biggest states in the country. It’s like looking
dred people that I despised (aside from my fami- for a raisin in a large vat of chocolate pudding.
ly), the more I was dedicated to geƫng good
enough to get a Ɵcket out. This barren town with I made it to the big meets, though. Throughout
nothing but lazy misfits, drunks and drugees, rac- my high school track career, I was the only single
ists and hypocrites, couldn't be my final desƟna- event girl to compete at the state track meet in
Ɵon. It wouldn't be. AusƟn. I was the first person in Morgan High
School’s history to win a state medal, adding that
With the work came the success, and even it was in mulƟple events over three years’ Ɵme. I
though my school was the smallest division in the went from placing third in the 400-meter dash
state, my results were sƟll compeƟng with the and second in the triple jump my sophomore
top schools in Texas. It felt good to jump two of year, to first in the long jump and triple jump and
six jumps and know I was an enƟre foot ahead of second in the 400-meter dash my junior year. My
everyone. There was no pressure, it was a guaran- final year of track I didn’t get the exact results I’d
teed win. The only pressure I felt was to get no- hoped for, but I sƟll won long jump by over a foot,
Ɵced by a big school with big scholarships, and and placed second in the triple jump.
even that pressure seemed far away, but just
close enough to keep in my peripheral. I’ll never forget geƫng my ass kicked in my last
400-meter race of high school. I rounded the final
One weekend the Morgan team would travel to corner for the last 100-meters of the race, and my
another rural town to compete. I ended up break- body just began to quit. It was finished even if I
ing their track meet triple jump record and a wasn’t ready to give up. I crossed the finish line
group of guys approached me aŌer the compeƟ- second-to-last and dropped to my knees, my
Ɵon. chest heaving but not from the run. I watched
tears drop onto the track and realized it would be
"Can we get a picture?" my last Ɵme compeƟng at this meet, at this facili-
ty that I’d felt like was home for the past three
I said sure, reaching for the guy's phone. He years. I’d never felt more comfortable pushing
laughed. "No, I mean we want to take a picture myself in a space as I did here. It was like saying
with you!" goodbye to your best friend. I looked around at
the people in the stands surrounding these girls
I was so confused. Why would they want to take a grabbing cups of water and trying to catch their
picture with me? I took it anyways and decided to breath, and I said goodbye.
ask before they walked away. "Because you could
have goƩen third in the guys’ triple jump compe- AŌer my junior year of high school I sent out
ƟƟon. You're gonna be an Olympic beast one my personal best performance marks to various
day."

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Adelaide Magazine

universiƟes: Baylor (my dream school), Louisiana the University of Memphis shortly aŌer I arrived
Monroe, Sam Houston State… I visited Sam Hou- home in Texas.
ston State and was impressed, but then I went to
Baylor and met their team. ***

Their faciliƟes were huge and seemed to glow When I got to college a lot changed. I wasn’t the
with promise. I saw Robert Griffin III in their train- only one who had had success. We all had, and I
ing room and nearly fainted from admiraƟon. I found myself beginning to miss the solitary victo-
loved that guy. The team took me out to a party ry. The truth of it was I wasn’t just compeƟng
that night and I got a glimpse of what it would be against other athletes at different colleges. I was
like to be one of them, these fine-tuned muscular compeƟng against the girls on our team as well,
machines during the day and some of the most and with those thoughts brought on a whole lot
fun people I’ve ever been around at night. They of insecuriƟes.
took me to my first bar and I danced with a guy
for the first Ɵme. I wanted to be part of their We would be in the weight room squaƫng unƟl
world. I wanted to be a fine-tuned machine. we reached our max weight. In all honesty, I was-
n’t squaƫng to find my own max. I was squaƫng
AŌer this I got a call from the University of Mem- to beat all the other girls’ max liŌs. I don’t think I
phis asking me to come out and visit their cam- enƟrely believed that if I liŌed heavier I would
pus. They’d seen my compeƟƟon results online become stronger, and from that run faster and
and were impressed. I’d never heard of the jump farther. That was rarely the focus for me.
school, and the only thing I knew about Memphis Instead I craved the shouts and praise I could get
was that Elvis lived there and my dad had passed when I was the girl with all the plates on her
through once while driving somewhere for work. I squat bar, next to the girl who only had two. I
sƟll had the shirt he bought me. It seemed like a wanted to be wrapped up in the echoes of those
good opportunity to get out of Texas for the first shouts that became louder than the Breaking
Ɵme, so I agreed and my family and I drove down Benjamin music blasƟng from the speakers on the
one weekend. ceiling. Those moments felt like home to me.

Things clicked for me when I got there. The cam- With the good came the bad, and bad jump days
pus was small for a division one university, but were the worst. I would struggle to even get close
that was a plus to me because I didn’t feel inƟmi- to the distances I was jumping my senior year of
dated. I’d been thinking a lot recently about hav- high school, and I would always sit in the locker
ing to start at the boƩom again as a freshman. I room aŌer pracƟce and wonder what the hell I
wasn’t looking forward to having to step out of was doing. I wondered if I would ever get beƩer,
the spotlight and work my way back there again. if I would ever feel as successful as I did in high
But the University of Memphis track team made school. If the numerous days that I came close to
me feel confident that I could. They also intro- what felt like death out on that damn track would
duced me to a lot of ways I could get involved in ever count for anything.
the community, which was a priority for me since
I knew I would be a stranger to this town if I did- My first collegiate track meet was an indoor com-
n’t. What really sold me to come to Memphis for peƟƟon in Birmingham, Alabama. I’d never been
college, though, was this feeling of comfort that inside an indoor track facility since Texas didn’t
surrounded me as soon as I stepped out of my have a strong need for them. It was a different
dad’s truck and onto its soil. My family was con- atmosphere. The air was filled with music playing
stantly reminding me of Memphis’ high crime from speakers, thwap thwap thwap bounced off
rate, but that knowledge didn’t shake this feeling the raised track surface that looked like a long
of comfort. The team seemed like my brothers oval bowl. The place was packed to compacity,
and sisters even though I had just met them. I athletes constantly having to look both ways be-
saw a bit of myself in them, as well as who I want- fore crossing a walkway so they didn’t get run
ed to be, and it seemed feasible. I realized then over by someone warming up with a few sprints.
that I didn’t want to become a fine-tuned ma-
chine. I just wanted to be a beƩer, stronger ver- I was one of those athletes warming up. I picked a
sion of myself. I signed my leƩer of intent to go to corner out of the way and started my rouƟne. I
tried to focus, zoning out everything else like I

196

Revista Adelaide

always did in high school. It was just me and the Years later I would graduate, finishing my senior
track. Me and the runway. Me and the sandpit. track and field year successfully. I would conƟnu-
No one else existed. My only compeƟƟon was ously jump over twenty feet at every outdoor
myself. I had become so comfortable with this track meet for long jump, be just cenƟmeters
frame of mind the past few years, and I knew that away from breaking the University of Memphis
it worked. It depressurized the atmosphere. school record, and make it to the regional track
meet. There I would choke, not even making it to
I couldn’t help but observe my surroundings, finals. And for months aŌer I would mourn my
though. There were three girls from the same lost opportunity. My failure to be on top once
team to my right, going through their warm up again.
drills in tandem. They wore Ɵght maroon spandex
that hugged their large hamstrings and quads. I ***
secretly hoped they were sprinters and not jump-
ers. They wore full faces of bold make up, and AŌer I was no longer a compeƟƟve collegiate ath-
their long straight pony tails whipped back and lete, I sƟll tried to work out at a high level. I
forth as they skipped a few steps before pulling thought maybe I could keep compeƟng, maybe I
their knee to their chest to stretch. could sƟll be on top. It was a hard task to keep up.
Between school, work, and teaching as well, I
I didn’t realize it at the Ɵme, but I began to try started to wonder if it was too much. I was over-
and mimic their confidence. They looked like win- whelmed. And how track used to be this emoƟon-
ners to me, and I just felt like a gnome in the al stress release, a safe place, now it was an add-
grass. I did every stretch and every drill with a ed stressor; something else to add to my to do
liƩle more pep in my step than usual. In that mo- list. So I cut back.
ment, what I wanted more than anything was to
not seem like an outsider. I wanted to fit in, and My workouts were only an hour for all of the days
then proceed to blow them away. I wanted to be I could get in during the week, which was usually
the threat they didn’t see coming, and in the pro- two or three. It was enough to keep me feeling fit
cess I tossed my natural confidence for someone and energeƟc, but some weeks I had no Ɵme to
else’s. I bent down to touch the ground and work out at all.
stretch my hamstring and I felt a pop! The panic
rapidly set in. There was one week where I hadn’t had a good
workout for half a month, and I felt it already –
I tried to keep stretching, telling myself it was the slugs wrapping themselves around my bones
nothing. The panic was already spreading across and weighing me down, coaxing me to the bed,
the inside of my skull like warm peanut buƩer. I whispering, “I know you’re Ɵred. You just need a
felt my hamstring Ɵghten as I conƟnued to fail at nap, a break. Give yourself a break!” I knew the
staying calm. I laughed uncomfortably as I told true cause of my faƟgue. My body had grown
our athleƟc trainer, trying to fight away tears. She used to twelve years of periodized high intensity
examined my hamstring and said she thought it workouts, and now I was depriving myself of it.
was fine, that I should be alright to compete.
I walked across my bedroom floor to face the
I did compete, and I didn’t make it to the sandpit mirror on my dresser, rotaƟng from side to side.
on any of my jumps. I couldn’t even jump as far as All I thought was one word: sausages. I would
I did in junior high. It was only nine feet to the work out the next day, doing a squat circuit in
sand pit. I just kept looking at all the other ath- between one hundred meter runs on the freshly
letes that I was compeƟng against. They were so rained on turf field. I would keep going unƟl I
confident. They actually looked like athletes. I felt squeezed my glutes and felt the beginning of
envy growing as they took off their shirt to put on soreness seƫng in.
a compeƟƟon tank, their abs looking beƩer than
most boys I’d seen in high school. My stomach Later I would lay in bed and watch Shola scrunch
was flat, but there was no definiƟon; a one-pack his bushy, dark eyebrows while trying to do eco-
instead of a six. I changed in the bathroom before nomics homework on his laptop, and I’d wonder if
going outside in the cool, brisk air to let the tears he missed that Sydney. The Sydney who could go
fall I’d been holding in for a long Ɵme. I broke out and easily squat 275 pounds or jump over
down. 20 feet. The Sydney who could push through the

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Adelaide Magazine

pain of 6 a.m. weights and 3 p.m. sprints, and the About the Author:
I’m proud of you, love, would follow every Ɵme.
I’d wonder if I should care, and if I should want Sydney Wright is a CreaƟve WriƟng graduate stu-
the same things for my body as others did. dent at the University of Memphis specializing in
ficƟon and literature. She has been a CreaƟve
I asked him, “Shola, can you tell that my body is NonficƟon editor for The Pinch Literary Journal
changing?” I wanted him to say no, that I was sƟll for two years, and has also read for their literary
the same. The same person that he loved, that he contest. Sydney was a track and field athlete for
fell for the first Ɵme we met on the track when he the U of M, compeƟng in mulƟple events during
arrived his freshman year. I was scared that he her eligibility.
would say yes. I was scared that he would say I
should probably try and work out more, that I
didn’t want to lose that part of myself. I was
scared that he believed the athlete was the best
part of me, and now that that was gone, I wasn’t
as great as I used to be.

“Yes,” he said. I stopped breathing, praying for a
but. He moved his computer aside and sat down
beside me, placing his hands on either side of my
face. “But it doesn’t change the way I feel about
you. You are beauƟful,” he said, kissing both of
my cheeks. “What maƩers is how you feel. If
working out makes you feel good then do it. If it
doesn’t, then don’t do it. I love you either way.”

His words made me feel beƩer in a way. I sƟll
didn’t know how to get rid of the biƩer longing
for something to replace this gaping hole in my
life. Maybe there wasn’t anything that could re-
place it. It was a part of my life that couldn’t be
replaced because it would always be a part of me,
a past me that has led the way for the future me.

Being an athlete isn’t my enƟre idenƟty, it is
simply a moving part that doesn’t need to be
filled with something new. I will conƟnue to trans-
form and move from one idenƟty to another, and
my body will change along with it. I won’t always
know where I’m going, or where I should be go-
ing, or if I should want to go where others want
me to. I’ll feel biƩerness and longing for my past
selves, but will also look forward to what my fu-
ture selves will bring. I will sƟll be me, and I will
find that new runners high.

I love you either way…

198