Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 24, May 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

beach where fishermen were repairing fish- caught my a en on, feeling frustrated by
ing nets and tending their small canoe-like my inability to penetrate beneath the sur-
boats. I slipped, causing my hands and cam- face? I felt like Chevy Chase in his classic
era (that was more serious!) to be smeared movie farce, Vaca on, saying, “Amen, let’s
with wet sand, so I went back to our van go,” as he stands on a ridge overlooking the
parked close by to get a water bo le to Grand Canyon. Perhaps when it is too over-
rinse away the muck. A small band of alert whelming that is all one can say.
kids followed me. When I cracked open the
sliding door of the van the children trans- Although the trip was educa onal and
formed instantly into an unruly pack head- rich with scenes for thought, I felt insulat-
ing for the van. ed, both physically and culturally separat-
ed from the pulse of what was there. My
“Stop,” I said. “What are you doing? Go crossing single file across the seven canopy
away!” They ignored me as they rushed walkways suspended atop the rain forest in
into the van, triumphantly grabbed every Kakum Na onal Park in Ghana serves as a
water bo le (nothing else) and bound out metaphor for the voyage from my perspec-
as quickly as they entered. They poured out
the water, laughing, delighted with their ac- ve. Countless hidden wonders were cam-
quisi ons, and ran off. Were they going to ouflaged beneath the narrow bridges that
use the empty bo les for a game of sorts, wobbled precariously at the tree-tops. The
or cash them in for a few pennies? I had no landscape was picturesque and photogenic.
idea, nor did anyone else I asked. I had the thrill of being there, smelling the
fragrances, hearing the bird calls and rustle
These nameless children are valuable of leaves, swea ng from the tropical hu-
resources for African na ons, as are the midity drenching my shirt, even seeing (and
deposits of oil and minerals, but significant avoiding!) a deadly green mamba snake
obstacles exist to reduce corrup on and res ng peacefully on the railing of a bridge.
raise the standard of living. The fates of Yet the high rope sides protected me from
these na ons seem in jeopardy and depend any danger of falling into the forest. The
on serendipity as well as educa on, which is danger we feared under our condi ons was
replete with challenges. Tourists are among as much a figment of roman c imagina on
those chance events that could make a dif- as grasping the cultures and lives of the Af-
ference. Staff members on our trip brought ricans was an illusion.
school supplies for the children. One pas-
senger had served as a volunteer and con- Whether insulated or not, real or illuso-
tributed to a hospital. Another couple on ry, Africa opened my eyes to how limited
the trip had joined an organiza on that led my experiences in life have been. Inside the
to their support of a child whom they vis- mind of each stranger in the street or local
ited from me to me and whose life they guide or drummer or merchant or child or
enriched. Lona and I contributed to an or- tribal chief exists a mysterious universe and
ganiza on that combated illegal fishing off network that I know nothing about, every
the coast. So much more needs to be done. bit as complex and interes ng as my own.
Janet Malcolm expressed this sen ment
Exactly what, then, was I looking at as I well in her essay, “A House of One’s Own,”
cruised through coastal West Africa clicking about the Bloomsbury legend: “No life is
my camera here, there, everywhere that more interes ng than any other life; every-

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body’s life takes place in the same twen- About the Author:
ty-four hours of consciousness and sleep;
we are all locked into our subjec vity, and
who is to say that the thoughts of a person
gazing into the ver ginous depths of a vol-
cano in Sumatra are more objec vely inter-
es ng than those of a person trying on a
dress at Bloomingdale’s?”

Many truths ra le within the background
noise. The challenge and reward rest in find-
ing the ones that relate to you.

During his 50-year career at the Na onal In-
s tutes of Health, Joram Pia gorsky, a life-
long writer, has published some 300 scien-

fic ar cles and a book, Gene Sharing and
Evolu on (Harvard University Press, 2007),
lectured worldwide, received numerous
research awards, including the pres gious
Helen Keller Prize for vision research,
served on scien fic editorial boards, adviso-
ry boards and funding panels, and trained a
genera on of scien sts.

Presently an emeritus scien st, he is on
the Board of Directors of The Writer’s Center
in Bethesda, has published essays and short
stories in the literary journals, Lived Experi-
ence and Adelaide Literary Magazine, a nov-
el, Jellyfish Have Eyes (IPBooks, 2014) and a
memoir, The Speed of Dark (Adelaide Books,
2018). He collects Inuit art and blogs about
science, wri ng and art at JoramP.com.

He has two sons, five grandchildren, and
lives with his wife in Bethesda, Maryland.
He can be contacted at [email protected]

150



by Keith Hoerner

It looks ordinary enough: a folded, egg-shell About the Author:
colored piece of co on cloth with block-
style monogram and decora ve striping Keith Hoerner (B.S., M.F.A.) lives, teaches,
along its square edges… a decidedly mas- and pushes words around in Southern Illinois.
culine mo f. But this is no ordinary tex le.
In fact, it is I who carried it from the small
needlework shop in Burano, Italy, three
years ago to the steely shore of New York
City, USA.  The dirty cousin of Venice,
Burano is made to sit a chair over from her
neighboring sister, Murano (maker of glass),
at the table of pres ge. S ll, Burano does
not bow her head in shame – or cry in her
masterfully made linens. Her bright colored
houses and shops, aside the Mediterranean
Sea, shine as cheerful as any other. Qui-
et and assured of herself, she alone gives
righ ul due to each island’s individuality
and intermingled heritage.  S tches in

me, I will never forget; I fold the memory
of you, dear seamstress, in my front coat
pocket: the blushing sunset reflected on
your aged face; gnarled fingers from de-
cades of hur ul work; pridefully handing
this so , yet slightly rough, ghtly woven,
simple, yet unmistakable handmade trea-
sure to me from across the far-away border
of your store counter.

151

BLOWING UP THE WORLD

by Michael Robinson Morris

A commi ee gathered in the cosmos, an in- what my answer to the fate of the Planet
tergalac c council assembled to decide the Earth should be, my wish was carried out.
fate of the Planet Earth. Not the Earth as it Without reprieve. My ins nct had pushed
is today, but Earth as an idea. The council the bu on, while my conscious self stood
must decide whether Earth, from its very horrified at the wrath of my own decision. I
outset at the beginning of me, should be screamed. Oh, how I screamed.
birthed again in order to become through
the billions of millennia of its life what it has I bolted up in bed screaming at the top of
become today, with all its wars, famine and my lungs. My bed wasn’t a bed, but a foam
misery, or whether it should be aborted, like ma ress and a sleeping bag laid on the din-
a fetus before it was ever born. The council ing room floor of my dad’s new girlfriend’s
had the power to go all the way back in me cockroach-infested Hollywood apartment.
and nip Earth in the bud if necessary.
S ll half asleep, I launched into the liv-
I was invited to the assembly. There were ing room where my brother David slept on
no chairs, no conference table. No faces. a similar makeshi bed.
Just darkness, and the invisible throbbing of
powerful minds. But I knew I was there. I “Mike?” he said.
had been invited to submit my all-import-
ant opinion. Once again, if we had the pow- All he must have perceived in the dark
er to reach back to the beginning of Earth’s was his brother pacing maniacally back and
crea on, should we let it become what it forth.
has become today, or should we blow it up
before it was ever born. All invisible faces “Mike, what happened?”
looked to me.
“Dad’s gonna kill me, Dad’s gonna kill me.”
My answer was…
“Why? Mike?”
Standing on the surface of Planet Earth, I
felt the whole world erupt beneath my feet, “I blew up the world.”
billions of voices screaming at once, the sky
afire with molten lava and sha ered crust. I eventually woke up, I suppose. For the
I screamed. For I realized in one instant en re day following, I was in a trance state,
that my answer hadn’t been verbalized. barely able to eat or talk. When I tried to
It had been enacted. Before I even knew explain what I had done in my nightmare,
just the words themselves repeated in my
own mouth brought the haun ng sensa-

ons back to me. I could s ll feel it. Stand-

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ing on the planet while it exploded beneath forced to watch my body speak for me. In
me and all around. My fault. the silhoue ed reflec on, I saw a terrible
image. My head was straining sideways,
David said, by the sound of my gurgling trying to put itself on my shoulders upside
scream, he thought I was gagging on a down.
horde of cockroaches that had bumrushed
the open cavity of my mouth. That would At school in the eighth grade later that
have been be er. week, I tried to explain this to my friend
Spencer. He barely heard what I was saying,
When my dad heard the story, he was since a group of other kids swooped toward
fascinated. He wanted to take me to a psy- us and swept him away while I was s ll re-
chiatrist to have the dream interpreted. I enac ng what my body was saying. Alone
told him no. It was s ll too close, I wanted in the wake of a frenzied throng of kids, I
to get away from it. My father’s intellectual stood with my head cocked to one side. The
interest le me cold to the idea of exploring muscles brought back to me that horrible
it further. feeling of responsibility and guilt for want-
ing to blow up the world.
–
My parents had split up when I was 9.
One year later I was 14. I was sleeping in my What that meant to me at the me I could
usual bed at my mom’s house in Topanga barely fathom. It only came in the form of
Canyon. She and her boyfriend Ken were in yelling and figh ng. My dad had a terrible
the bedroom across the hallway. In the dead temper. He never hit me, but I’d seen him
of night, I crept past them and descended destroy things. This trickled down to my
the stairs in my pajamas. I could feel the brother and me. A er he le , it became
told ceramic les under my bare feet. My quite normal for us to smash toys and
right hand ran along the lacquered wooden punch holes in the walls. My mom never
handrail. I was sensate. But I wasn’t awake. knew when to let up. She would harangue
my father to no end, as if daring him to
When I reached the bo om of the stairs, lash out at her. When he had come to pick
I turned le and walked toward the dining me up for a custody weekend, my mom
room, past the bar-style kitchen counter on came out of the house to accuse him, to
my right and the living room on my le . From rail him, to blame him for all he was do-
the light I must have turned on at the top of ing to the family. I don’t remember the
the stairs, I could see my silhoue e reflected words, I remember the yelling. My dad
in the dining room window. In a trance, I ap- was trying to drive away and my mom
proached the dark outline of myself. was grabbing at him, trying to stop him
from escaping.
The infernal ques on was put to me
again. Should the earth become what it has “You’re harassing me! You’re harassing
become today, or should we blow it up from me!” he yelled back at her, before finally
the outset? If your answer is to let it be, the ge ng his Honda out of the driveway.
voice told me, leave your head on straight.
If you want to blow up the world, turn your I buried myself in the world of mar al
head upside down. arts. Bruce Lee and the Shaolin monks gave
me an opportunity to focus my strength. In
Like I had been a helpless witness to the
execu on of my detached wishes, I was

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the backyard of the Topanga house, I pre- –
tended I was a Shaolin monk born three
hundred years ago, training under harsh When I was 18, I had the choice of going
circumstances, ba ling corrupt generals to college 10 minutes away at UCLA, or to
for the freedom of the land. That’s where New York University on the other side of
I went when I couldn’t stand the yelling in the country. Of course I chose the la er. I
the house. And a er my dad was gone, it wanted to get far away from home. I’d had a
was my mom’s crying. Then a er that it taste of this kind of adventure when I went
was my brother’s raging outbursts. I had to London by myself as a guest of the Na-
nowhere else to go but away. Thus formed
my habit of “disappearing”. If I couldn’t do onal Youth Theatre of Great Britain. When
it physically, I did it emo onally. It’s no sur- I was out on my own in a strange new world,
prise that one of my favorite pas mes as a I could start over. I didn’t have to bring my
young adolescent was to prowl the neigh- handicaps with me. People would meet me
borhood as a ninja. Donned in the tradi on- and be interested because of who I could be
al black Japanese garb of tabi shoes, head at that moment. God forbid anybody should
wrap, shin-wrapped pantaloons and bag of know me for too long, or they would find
tricks, I headed out into the dark neighbor- me out.
hood. Being invisible and peeking into oth-
er people’s private lives was a thrill for me. NYU was a haven for filmmaking and act-
And I did it with the no on that it gave me ing, part of my three-point get-famous plan
power. When I was invisible, I could do any- that included the songwri ng and recording
thing I wanted. Be er to have a secret pow- that I did on my own. I was 3000 miles away
er—a pretend power—that nobody knows from home and I could rebuild myself from
about, rather than be helpless in the face of the start. And I was determined to work
others. If I was helpless in the disintegra on three mes as hard as anyone else just to
of my family, I found a way to balance the prove that I was a complete human being.
scales.
I shared a dorm room with two other
Whenever I felt I didn’t fit in during high roommates; it was a new home be er than
school, I turned and disappeared, to leave my old home. I had escaped and I was never
people wondering where I went. At a count- going back.
less number of par es, I would hide in the
bathroom and stare into the mirror, reas- But one night my mind dri ed up to the
suring myself that I had a secret, powerful ceiling a er everyone was asleep. I floated
self lurking beneath my determined fea- in the upper corner and mingled with the
tures. They would all see how great I would molecules circula ng in the air. Looking
become. They’ll see. I will do it on the sly, I down on the room, I was stricken with the
told myself. I will work my magic in ac ng, grasp of the infinitesimal. The 15-by-20 foot
filmmaking and music, un l I become larg- room was as massive as the universe. And
er than life. I will prove it to the world how I was just a miniscule speck, suffocated by
great I am. the massive weight of the universe. I was an
ant’s breath away from being nothing.
Yet at the same me I felt so small. There
was too much to prove. I got up out of bed, sensate but not
awake. I went into the bathroom and turned
on the harsh white cabinet light. I stared at
my face in the mirror. If you want to destroy

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the world, hold your breath, the inner voice About the Author:
told me. My reflec on stared back at me,
cheeks puffed, lips pursed. I was holding Michael Robinson Morris is a filmmaker and
my breath, trying to destroy my idea of the songwriter who first enjoyed seeing his name
world again. God, how could I escape from in print in the 6th grade for “Fonda Honda,” a
myself. I envisioned opening the tenth floor short travelogue piece for the school news-
window and leaping out. There were voices paper in his hometown of Topanga, Califor-
from below, late night kids carousing on the nia. He is due for publica on with Pure Slush
street. What would they think of seeing my and has recently been awarded a grand prize
body landing splat on the pavement next to at the Eyelands Book Awards.
them?

I turned on the faucet and splashed my
face with water, hoping to snap myself out
of it. It was a ba le between two people;
my ra onal self and the wounded child that
would never forget. How I could hold my
breath thinking that I might suffocate the
world while being simultaneously aware
that I had to save myself before it was too
late, I don’t know. But finally I prevailed.
I looked into my pale blue eyes and my
washed out face and saw that I had sur-
vived.

I s ll carry with me to this day a sense
of infinitesimal grandiosity. I s ll want to
change the world, to make an impact, yet
I am always haunted by a feeling of small-
ness, helplessness, that I am invisible to the
world. I expect to spend the rest of my life
working my way out of this paradigm. But
it will be that labor that will bear the fruits
of fulfillment. My handicaps will be my tri-
umphs. If I survived the destruc on of the
world, what greater feat is there?

155

THE WASHOUTS

By Patrick D. Hahn

“Morning, Ray.” They’d rather keep burning through new
employees than treat the ones they have de-
It’s six o clock in the morning. Sunrise is cently. But, a er ten years as an adjunct, I’m
s ll a ways off. Ray barely looks up from the used to being treated that way.
pump engine he’s bent over like some kind
of medieval hunchback. “Mornin’ Pat,” he I check the oil on both the truck engine
drawls. Ray is one of the few washers who and the pump engine. (I’m probably the only
has been here longer than I have. In fact, he washer here who bothers doing this.) I wait in
was the one who trained me my first day line with a bunch of red unshaven guys to fill
here. I s ll remember that day – we washed jugs with liquid soap and brightener. I make
trucks for fi een hours with a wind chill sure I’ve got my hydrant cap, wrench, and
factor of zero degrees Fahrenheit. Ray’s my long and short brushes. I take the truck to the
age but looks decades older. He doesn’t talk Amoco sta on around the corner, fill the gas
much about himself, but I’m vaguely aware tank, and return to the shop. Only then am I
that he he’s got a couple of kids and an ag- allowed to punch in. It’s a nice touch – before
ing mother and a whole house full of hang- I’ve even punched in, they’ve already screwed
ers-on to support. He’s okay in my book. me out of working half an hour or so for free.
But, as I said, I’m used to that sort of thing.
When I began my career as an adjunct
lecturer, I took this job as a temporary stop- I meet my brusher for the day, named
gap, an easy way to make money on week- Mike, and he climbs into the passenger seat
ends and de me over un l I grasped the alongside me. As we head for our first ac-
Holy Grail known as a full- me job. That was count, he tells me about himself. Eighteen
eight years ago. Since that me, except for years old. Just graduated from high school this
the two years I spent in Africa, I have spent year. This is his first grown-up job. I nod po-
almost every Saturday and Sunday washing litely, but I don’t really care. The longer I work
trucks for twelve, thirteen or fourteen hours here, the more I think Ray had the right idea
at a whack. Some mes more. In the mean- about brushers. “I don’t even bother learnin’
their names,” he once told me wearily.
me, almost all the guys I met when I began
working here have moved on. Kevin, Joey, When I began working here, the guys and
Terry, P.J., Mark, Maceo, Norm, Erv, Zack, Ty- I used to joke about the fact that I taught
rone, Lamont – all gone. One by one they’ve college during the week (I don’t think most
all quit, or go en fired, or gone back to pris- of them even finished high school) but now-
on, or died. Now it seems like there’s a whole adays, I think very few of them have any
new bunch of faces in here every weekend.

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idea who I am. Which is just as well. An im- diately Mike and I lock horns. A er I finish
portant lesson I’ve learned during ten years rinsing off the three trucks, I inadvertently
as an adjunct – don’t do anything to call at- spray a few drops of water on Mike’s fancy
ten on to yourself. sneakers. (What the Hell is he doing wearing
them to a dirty job like this anyway?) “Hey,
As we cruise down US 1, Mike dozes off. you’re ge ng my shoes wet,” he warns.
Bad sign. I think most of the guys here must
stay up all night partying (or watching TV) Ten years as an adjunct has taught me
and then roll out of bed five minutes before you go a let ‘em know early who’s in charge.
six (or five minutes a er), throw on whatev- “You’re gonna get wet on this job,” I snap.
er clothes are within reach, and run out the “It can’t be helped.”
door. In contradis nc on to them, I always
make sure I get a full night’s sleep before “Hey man, I’m not gonna let you disrespect
coming here. I get up half an hour early, me,” he warns, in a tone of voice that lets me
drink my coffee before leaving the house, know I’m supposed to be impressed. I’m not.
and eat breakfast in the car while driving Where the Hell did he get the idea that you’re
to work. When I get here I’m rested, fed, supposed to walk into a for-profit ins tu on
I’ve got my blood caffeine ter up where it and start talking trash like that your first hour
should be, I’m appropriately dressed for the there? Then I remember that he’s a recent
weather, and I’ve got my lunch and drinking graduate of our es mable public schools. Time
water with me. Ten years as an adjunct, usu- for a li le Real World 101 here. It’s early Sun-
ally teaching more than a full- me load, with day morning, not another soul in sight, and
no more office than the trunk of my car, has we’ll both be a lot be er off if I thoroughly dis-
taught me another important lesson: Be pre- abuse him of the no on of doing anything stu-
pared. It’s part of the reason why I can s ll pid. I get in his face and scream at him in the
run rings around men less then half my age. same thundering voice I use addressing 300
students without a microphone. I tell him that
We reach our first account, a drug test- he’s finished, that I don’t need him, that I’ll fin-
ing laboratory with a fleet of about ninety ish the Goddamn run myself. I get on the radio
cars and sport u lity vehicles. Obvious- and call the Big Boss and tell him, “Come and
ly business is booming. Sign of the mes. get this guy. He’s no good. I don’t need him.”
We’ve become a Urine Na on – you’re only
as good as your latest pee sample. “What’s wrong?” the Big Guy asks.

We go to the rear of the building, and “Just a whim on my part,” I snap. I’m not
Mike stays in the car while I fill up our wa- going into details. I’ve been working for this
ter tank at the fire hydrant. I run the risk ou it almost six years. If my word isn’t good
of ge ng arrested for doing this, but ten enough for them, they can fire me. I put the
years as an adjunct has taught me that no radio down, and Mike gets on to tell the Big
ma er how awful a job is, if you won’t take Guy his side of the story. I can hear the Big
it somebody more desperate than you will. Guy trying to soothe him while I’m rolling up
the hose. I jump into the truck, completely
I climb back into the driver’s seat and ignoring Mike, and slam the door. He gets
take the truck for a spin around to the front in beside me and I drive around the back.
of the building, to wash the three trucks S ll ignoring Mike, I jump out and begin
that are always parked there. Almost imme- washing at a furious pace. Mike seems so

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

surprised that we can take him or leave him immaculate, but they look a Hell of a lot bet-
that he grabs his brush and starts brushing. ter than they did when we arrived. I make
out the bill and leave a copy (there’s nobody
The Big Guy never comes. Three hours around to sign for it) and we’re on our way.
later, the vehicles are all clean. By this me,
Mike and I have reached an unspoken truce. And so the day rolls by. We finish all our
I walk around and write down the numbers accounts and get back to the shop at 6:00
of all the vehicles while the tank is filling up. PM. Mike jumps out of the truck and guides
me into a parking space. I hand the wrench
The next stop is a day care center for and hydrant cap back to Ray, and Mike and I
mentally disabled adults, with about a dozen punch out. By now we’ve both been on our
vans. Sounds like a piece of cake, but the vans feet for twelve hours, for the second day in a
have to be cleaned inside and out. We sweep row. I know that when I get home, I’m going
the floors, pick up the used Kleenex ssues, to gorge myself and sleep for fourteen hours.
and clean the clients’ slobber off the win-
dows with Windex and paper towels. There I offer Mike a ride home, and he accepts.
really isn’t any efficient way of doing this, We both climb into my li le Kia Sephia,
and we’re both flopping around on the seats which is small, but it’s clean and well-main-
of the vans like a couple of fish out of water. tained. A er dropping him off, I merge on to
A erwards, we soap and brush the outsides, 295 and begin heading home.
get the bill signed, and we’re on our way.
The rays of the se ng sun are streaming
The next place is an office supply compa- through the car windshield, suffusing my
ny. They’ve got only two trucks, but they’re world with an amber glow. The purest slum-
filthy. First I spray the trucks with “brighten- ber known to man awaits me – the res ul
er” (actually aqueous sulfuric acid, colored repose that comes a er hard work.
a fes ve pink). Some mes I wonder what all
these years of inhaling aerosolized sulfuric It’s not over yet. Tomorrow is another day.
acid is doing to my lungs, but there’s no me
to worry about that now. I yell for Mike to About the Author:
turn on the soap, and he does, and I soap the
trucks thoroughly. Mike brushes the trucks, Patrick D Hahn is an Affiliate Professor of
and I rinse them off. The fronts of the boxes Biology at Loyola University Maryland and a
are s ll festooned with hundreds of dead in- freelance writer.
sects, baked on by the heat of the sun. I pop
the hood on one of the trucks and climb up
on top of the engine block. An unexpected
note of concern creeping into his voice, Mike
warns, “Hey man, you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“That’s an issue only for people with
something to live for,“ I quip, but actual-
ly there’s very li le danger of my hur ng
myself here. I know what I’m doing. I blast
the front of the boxes with brightener, then
soap. Mike hands me the short brush, and
I brush the Hell out of the front of the box,
then rinse it off. I repeat the same proce-
dure with the other truck. They’re far from

158

HOME FREE

by Andrew Chinich

I grew up next to a grave yard. Later, my brother got a job in that grave-
yard, spending his summers mowing the
My alarm clock for school was dirt and lawns and raking the dirt over the freshly
gravel bouncing off the lowered coffins. dug graves. He’d spend the a ernoons with
his girlfriends, laying on the granite tomb-
From my bedroom window I could see stones that had either toppled over by na-
those black holes in the ground that swal- ture or the locals. He pointed out to me that
lowed up the boxes. Some mornings I’d pull it was a good way to fight off the boredom
the curtain back and there was a charcoal of the job while he waited for the next met-
sea of black raincoats, black umbrellas, al box to appear.
black tears. But mostly, I’d skip that part.
Some mes I wondered if he saw me spy-
I was just a kid and none of this mat- ing on him through my window. I believe
tered much to me back then. My brother he did. And I believe it made him happy
had a mean streak, a bad temper. It was thinking he was se ng a good example. But
my job to wake him up for school, so it fell I didn’t aspire to make out with a girl on a
on me to bear witness to his hormonal-fu- tombstone. Hell, I didn’t even know any girls.
eled sleep-deprived anger. He was immune
to the graveyard’s gu ural soundscape of We slowly grew up and apart, the eight
shovels, dirt, and sobs. They made no differ- years between us proving too wide a moat
ence to him, weren’t enough to wake him to navigate.
from the grasp of teenage sleep.
Our emo onal needs and social circles
One day he threatened that if I woke were equally disparate hurdles to jump
him up again he’d kill me. And I believed over. I never thought much about it back
him. But I guess he took mercy on me and then but truth be told, for my part, I felt like
instead targeted my pet fish. Out of lazi- I was born at the wrong me and on the
ness he kept an empty milk bo le next to wrong side of the tracks. Not so my broth-
the bed to piss in and one morning he emp- er who was a familiar fixture in our small
town, comfortable in that role and place.
ed it into my ny aquarium. It was a slow As the years passed and friends le , he re-
death for those poor li le guppies, as one mained. It never occurred to him that he
by one their numbers dissipated. Of course, needed to escape anything. The grave yard
I didn’t learn about this un l much later. summer job became a full- me all-year job.
One of the great mysteries of my child- He seemed at ease and content spending
hood, solved.

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his me amongst the tombstones, the dirt, About the Author:
and other people’s grief. Maybe it made
him feel be er to think he was invincible, Andrew Chinich, writer, recording and per-
untouched by all that misery around him. forming ar st, has wri en stories all his life
Of course, that’s a fool’s point of view, the and has had mul ple stories published. His
arrogance of youth, with its false promise passion is the short story, par cularly CNF,
of eternal life and ability to dodge the sad- impac ul and memorable moments told
ness and despair that affected others. But with an economy of scale.
no one gets through unscathed.

I buried my brother in that grave yard
one July. He got into a car wreck playing
chicken at a railroad crossing. For weeks af-
ter I’d just stare out the bedroom window
hoping to get a glimpse of him, mowing
the lawns or raking the fresh dirt into fine
pa erns, or making out with one of his girl-
friends on a slab of fallen concrete.

Thinking about it now, I see this even-
tuality as a natural conclusion to our story.
He had dri ed in and out of one dead end
job a er another, but always came back
to that graveyard, his safe place. I believe
he was happy there, so it just made sense
to lay him to rest where he could be with
the familiar sounds and smells he felt most
comfortable with. Some mes I imagine he’s
s ll peering out, looking into my window,
looking for me. S ll intent on se ng an ex-
ample. But I’m not there anymore.

160

HOLD HER ONCE AGAIN

by Juanita Tovar

I As grandmother and granddaughter let go
of each other, Consuelo runs her fingers down
It’s Saturday. Sábado. In the AM. The sky is Juanita’s silky hair, slowly uncovering her al-
a solid shade of light blue, unclouded and mond shaped eyes, blush cheeks. She whispers
pris ne. Its pastel hues are reflected on into her ear “Go and say hello to your Tito.”
Juanita’s red sunglasses as she stares out
the window. She is headed to meet her Juanita’s shoes touch the ground, quick-
grandparents for the weekend. ly moving to close on the few inches that
separate her from Tito, her grandfather,
The door opens and Juanita runs through Guillermo. She sits on his lap. His hands ap-
it. Co on pink dress bounces side to side. proach her face. Finger ps move to map it
She’s sprin ng to reach Consuelo, her Tita, out, to outline her sharp chin, the roundly
who’s si ng in her customary leather sofa shaped p of her nose, to feel her so skin.
chair. Eyebrows rise, lips curve upwards, fill- Juanita’s head approaches his chest, while
ing a half-moon shape. She’s ge ng closer. he hugs her, quietly.
Short brown hair swings to the sides, her
feet push down on the ground, hardly, mov- The door opens once more. Two dark
ing quickly, without hesita on. She’s been haired kids, Rafael and Maria, burst through
looking forward to this moment all week. the heavy, white gate. Their feet tapping,
moving briskly to meet Consuelo’s embrace.
“My Adora on,” Consuelo so y yells in a
deep, raspy voice. Her torso opens up, arms “Can we play sailors, please Tito?” Juan-
awai ng in an cipa on to hold her once again. ita asks loudly enough for her cousins’ to
cheer in response.
Grandmother and granddaughter’s ex-
pression changes to reveal iden cal dents “Okay, okay, come here,” he says, his dry
on their cheekbones. Both faces move in lips open to reveal a white smile.
unison, to reveal the same emo on.
Juanita’s hands shi to rest her weight
Juanita finally reaches Consuelo’s silk on his upper torso. Legs straighten to stand
blouse, smooth velvet pants. She presses on the sofa, then turn and twist to sit on his
onto her ghtly, finds comfort with her thin shoulders, to reach the top of this mytho-
arms wrapped around her. She’s trapped in logical boat as commander, as chief, looking
her warmth, encompassed by Tita’s aroma down at her marines, salu ng them, seeing
of cigare es and patchouli. flee ng dreams of childhood materializing
into the real world.

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Guillermo’s body rests colonized, with one Lourdes, and Juanita were si ng at the ta-
child si ng on his shoulders, another res ng ble to lower her voice — so as to alleviate
on his le leg, and the other gripping onto the the meaning of what was about to be said.
sofa chair’s right arm with his thighs, firmly.
All of them ckling, pulling, pushing onto him. “Honey, your grandma had an accident.
She...she hurt her leg and was admi ed to
Juanita steals Tito’s sunglasses and puts the hospital today.”
them on…..the black sunglasses Guillermo
wore at all mes, the ones that he used to Time accelerated, Valen na’s a en on
veil his grey eyes, to conceal the silver cir- solely focused on her daughter’s reac on,
cles that had slowly eaten away the pris ne on her eyes widening, palms ascending
pupils he once used to have. from the table to cover those miniature
pink lips.
II
Stoic under the warm light of the liv-
The following week was mundane, unre- ing room, Juanita remained silent. Daugh-
markable. Every morning at 5am Juanita’s ter’s vigilant sight paid precise a en on to
mother, Valen na, curved her back straight Valen na’s body language, her words, her
and pulled her daughter’s wool covers, so tone. They looked and searched for hidden
she could escape the land of dreams. meaning.

Every day she served cornflakes and milk “I talked to your Tito and he told me….
to the table where she sat, watched, and Ahem….that she fell down and broke her
waited un l Juanita finished her breakfast. leg this morning. She went into surgery but
she’s ok, she’s stable. I don’t think it’s pos-
Sleep, reality, daydreams, then sleep sible for us to visit her today, but I’ll call the
again. Everything perfectly choreographed, hospital first thing, so we can go and see
in sync with the schedule the world had de- your Tita tomorrow, ok? You can hug and
signed for them. kiss her soon, probably tomorrow. And….
and we can bring her flowers, roses, her
Then came Thursday. favorite...Your Tita is going to be fine, you
don’t need to worry.”
It all happened while Valen na was in
the kitchen, while she was restlessly mov- Valen na sensed how her muscles ght-
ing her hands, alterna ng between pots, ened to reveal a smile. Juanita’s face re-
making sure that dinner could be served laxed a er she placed her right hand on top
on me. The telephone inside the kitchen of hers. She did this to calm her, to symbol-
rung suddenly, she had no me to pick it up. ically hold her.
She heard Guillermo’s low voice speaking
through the voicemail machine. As she focused on Juanita’s changing
expressions, she felt the weight of what
“Vale, pick up, there’s something I have wasn’t being said all around, bruising her.
to tell—”
III
Valen na moved swi ly to reach the
phone. Friday morning’s rou ne moved mother
and daughter as if nothing had been said
The call was quick, the words enounced the night before. Memories of nightmares
were concise. She waited un l her wife,

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passed evaporated into the hard cold real- became interlaced into each other, she kept
ity. Valen na took Juanita to the school’s them s ll and ght. Juanita could not let
bus stop, waited un l she was picked up, them separate, she needed these supplica-
then went to work.
ons to whatever figure existed up in the
At around 5pm the school bus carried sky, earth or beyond not be interrupted.
Juanita’s body backwards, towards her house.
Deep in contempla on she eloquent-
In the a ernoon a red sun descended. ly narrated every single promise she could
Bleeding down, it slowly approached the imagine in return for Tita to leave the hos-
horizon. pital today, tonight, tomorrow. She prom-
ised to pray every day, to go to church every
Juanita’s feet couldn’t stop moving, they Sunday, to be good, to be kind, to be loving.
kept on silently tapping the rubber floor. Right She became overwhelmed by all of Consue-
palm ascended feeling her unse led heart, lo’s memories rushing in and flooding all of
pressing on her palpita ng veins. Enclosing her with melancholy. Mind succumbed to
her was the noise of children’s res ul breath- hazy images of Tita’s intense laugh, of the
ing, of a man’s deep voice talking over the ra- clicking noise her gold wrist bangles would
dio, of the city screaming outside the window. make whenever her hands flew up in the air
with power, with passion, helping her to tell
Even though she was surrounded by anecdotes and stories.
relaxed bodies and by the beams of lucid
dreams, she existed in absence of those Juanita drowned in her remembrance,
emo ons. Juanita made steady and quiet in feelings felt when she found herself
mo ons. In order not to disturb the class- trapped, enclosed in her arms, her touch,
mates si ng beside her, she brought her her scent, in the memory of how happy
legs up, folded them, and kneeled. She tried and safe she had been in Tita’s presence.
to balance her torso with her arms, the bus Mind overwhelmed with flowing images of
kept on stopping and accelera ng at the every single birthday, school presenta on,
pace of Bogota’s traffic. She struggled, lost christmas eve, of all the mundane a er-
stability, and straightened up once again. noons they had spent together. The end-
less amount of hours shared side by side,
Juanita sensed a twist in her stomach, in which Consuelo used her ac ons to color
a fire burning her guts. She held back the the outline, the heart, the edges of their
tears wan ng to escape her eyes. She could bond. With thick lines and vibrant shades
not let them escape, couldn’t bare for it to she painted, she filled in, she brought to life
be real. the deep affec on she felt for Juanita.

She li ed the holy right hand, first graz- Reminiscences that stabbed her heart,
ing the top of her neck “In the name of the her lungs. Passing snapshots of a life with-
father”, lowering to reach her chest “In the out Consuelo that she could not fathom,
name of the son,” then moving toward her she could not bare to imagine. Thoughts
heart “In the name of the holy spirit,” and dissociated, mind wanted to sink into emp-
finally touching her right shoulder “Amen.”
Palms met, pushed against each other with ness, to dissolve nothingness with Tita.
a violent intensity, a force driven by the
prayers being recited in whispers. Fingers She stood there, with bent knees, balanc-
ing, trying to keep straight as the bus forced

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her body into mo on. The pain suffocated She put the phone back, heard it click.
her, bruised her, pushed her under water. Valen na’s figure shi ed, it moved steadily
She kneeled, she prayed, she focused, hard towards the edge of the matrimonial bed,
and long, hoping inner thoughts would give beyond Lourdes’ reach, away from her
power to her powerlessness. warm touch, trying to find an escape.

IV Valen na stood up, silently, leaving her
wife fastened to the world of dreams. The
It was five. 5AM. In the morning. Tic toc c. weight of gravity pulled her feet down,
Valen na’s ears were stabbed by a sharp made the steps towards the kitchen heavy
sound, by a noise that echoed inside this and difficult.
room’s walls, screaming, shrieking, not let-
She sat down on the li le stool in the
ng go. Dreams that were keeping her figure back of the kitchen with her head falling
rigid, teeth clenching, and fists closed started down, back arching, eyes staring, fixated on
to fade. The moment she opened her eyes, a the white porcelain floor.
rush of reality slapped her in the face, hard.
And just like that it was back.
In the darkness Valen na quickly moved
her le arm towards the edge of the bed- Waves pressing, thrus ng, compressing
side table to get a hold of the phone. The Valen na’s chest. Hi ng, slapping, unset-
voice in the background, on the other side tling her insides. Rest was an impossibili-
of the line, was Guillermo’s. ty, she was in absence of it. She could feel
them ebbing, massaging, ckling. Breathing
Heart was chasing, palpita ng off her stopped and started at the pace of her inner
chest, wan ng to escape, to rip open through waters, controlling the air that was being
Valen na’s rib cage. Hands ascended to sense sucked in and released.
her throat, to find a pulse. Liquid blackness
started to be released from within, filling all Wet waves stopped Valen na from fully
of her. Dark terror began to be whispered in filling up her lungs, they forced her to keep
her ear quietly at first, then shou ng, making her mouth open, looking, searching for air.
Valen na unable to hear what was s ll being Right fist closing ghtly onto the wooden
said from the other side of the line. chair, le hand rising, quickly reaching, per-
ceiving the accelerated pulse of her throat.
“Vale, are you s ll there?
You have been here before. Relax lax ax
And those words violently pulled Val-
en na back, away from the inner darkness Small, flee ng gulps of air were first con-
and into the unlit room where she was lay- sumed, then were set free.
ing down. Back into being aware of her legs
grazing the silken sheets that encompassed Valen na’s anxious thoughts were fully
her, into feeling Lourdes’ quiescent body in control of her senses, her reality. Never
approaching hers, back to her wife’s finger- fully compressing her lungs, never driving
her over the edge of sanity.
ps wan ng to stroke Valen na’s smooth
skin, torso closing in on any gap s ll le be- V
tween them.
It was eight. She had been pacing around
“Thank you for calling so early. I...I guess the house. Si ng down, standing up. Re-
I’ll talk to you later.” Valen na said.

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arranging papers, receipts, bills, postcards. meet Valen na’s gaze, one that shocks and
Preparing coffee, sipping it. Going to Juan- immobilizes her body.
ita’s room in quest of the peace that she
knew couldn’t be found. Valen na takes her daughter’s small
hands, replicas of her own, extremi es with
Eyelids fell down, they collapsed, Val- iden cal pale color and the exact same
en na pushed them closed, shut, wishing three pink curved lines running through
this mo on would make her descend to the their palms. She leads Juanita towards the
land of uninterrupted dreams, that it would bathroom, both walking together, feel-
take her back to those days in which she ing the silence of what was not being said
slept hard, all the me, for hours, for days. shrieking, filling the empty soundscape,
ea ng them raw from within.
It was me.
Valen na kneels down to meet her face.
She used the intercom to tell Juanita to
come down. Juanita had slept over at her “Are you leaving me Mommy, are we not
friend’s place, who lived upstairs. She could going to live together anymore?” Juanita
sense the terror rising, creeping, colonizing asks, her voice breaks.
her throat first, puncturing her chest sec-
ond, pulsa ng through her head third. “Oh honey, no. I have to tell you some-
thing though. Remember how your grandma
Inside her house, inches from her wife, 2 went to a hospital on Thursday, had surgery,
floors of separa on from her daughter, she and we were trying to go and visit? Well… it
recognized something familiar to her. A blue seems that she had a bad reac on to a drug
shadow became visible, gradually moving they gave her... and there were complica-
with its grey silhoue e closer, approaching,
awai ng the moment it could stand besides ons…Ahem…My love, your Tita has made
Valen na, turning once again into a con- the decision to leave before we do.”
stant companion.
Valen na pauses for a moment. Her
She laid flat on Juanita’s bed, feeling, see- gaze locks into hers. It’s perplexed, con-
ing, sensing the descent of that old friend, fused. Juanita’s lips remain closed, her tor-
succumbing to his magne c darkness. so unmoved, sight poin ng towards Valen-

VI na’s head, but her gaze dri ing, sinking,
descending unto her inner-world.
Valen na opens the door. Juanita comes
through it, smiling, unaware, serene. “My love, she’s always going to be with
you, looking over you, watching over you,
The room is silent. S ll and empty. Its she will forever love you.”
deafening sound is broken the moment Val-
en na’s mouth opens to enunciate “Juani Valen na’s emo ons fall down her
-a nickname she would o en use to subtly cheekbones. Mother pulls her daughter
express her love for her- I have to tell you close, ghtly against her body. Juanita’s head
something.” rests hidden in between Valen na’s chest
and shoulders. Mother’s beige cashmere
Clearly enounced words accompanied sweater dries up her tears, it conceals her
with a low tone, with a harsh air of seri- wet eyes and dampened face. Her maternal
ousness, one that makes Juanita look up to embrace holds onto silent screams of pain,
it shields Juanita from her own sadness.

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About the Author:

Juanita Tovar is an emerging crea ve non-
fic on writer with only a small sca ering of
published pieces. She currently writes for
Spoiled NYC and acts as the crea ve direc-
tor of their art department. Juanita is from
Colombia and has lived in New York City
since 2014.

166

THE TROUBLE WITH GERRY

by Christopher Harris

In 1964 my thirty-one-year-old brother Ger- lieve these occasional a empts by phone
ry cut himself off from our family. I was 19. over the years would succeed. Gerry hadn’t
I’ve never come to terms with his disappear- had a phone when he lived in Princeton,
ance. Many mes I’ve thought of him, won- he had used Ft. Lauderdale pay phones for
dering why a brother I loved abandoned his one yearly call on Christmas Day, and
me. When I recently learned that Gerry had yet we believed we might reach him with a
died, I had li le more grief to give a er fi y call. Gerry shunned phones, perhaps right-
years of loss, but I thought his death might ly fearing that directory informa on would
have opened a window onto the reason he lead us to him.
turned his back on us.
Using Google’s panoramic street photo-
With his death informa on about Gerry graphs, I examined buildings where Gerry
appeared in online genealogy sites, includ- had lived, as if a view from the street could
ing a par al list of places he had lived a er reveal traces of his life. With my cursor, I
he disappeared. I now could begin explor- traveled up and down streets, looking along
ing his life following the break with our fam- one side, rota ng the view to move down
ily. But was I willing to face difficult truths I the other. Most were mul story apartment
might find? I asked myself why I’d started buildings situated on busy streets. Number
looking for him again. twelve thirty-nine was different, a pink sin-
gle-story building with two wings that em-
“You’ll never learn why he le you,” my braced a parking area. Google’s camera had
wife commented. reached into the branches of a gingko tree,
its red and yellow leaves blocking some
She was probably right, but I decided I of the view while lending a bucolic atmo-
had to try. sphere to the scene. During his last three
years my brother had lived at twelve thir-
An internet search revealed that Ger- ty-nine.
ry’s residences over the years were within
Ft. Lauderdale, where he had moved from I tracked down the building’s landlord,
Princeton, New Jersey. I turned that over in Mark. A er Gerry died, Mark cleared out
my mind; Gerry had lived in the city since the sparsely furnished apartment. Mark
1964 and yet we never found him. For a kept objects my brother had collected,
while my brother Rod and I tried calling among them a map of the Ba le of Get-
Ft. Lauderdale, thinking he might have a tysburg, where our ancestors, the Blisses,
phone. Looking back, it was foolish to be-

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owned a farm when Union and Confederate being discharged and opened a Jaguar auto
armies fought the decisive ba le of the Civil repair shop with a friend. The venture lasted
War; a photograph of a GI ligh ng the ciga- three years. When his partner signed a radio
re e of another soldier inscribed “Joe with adver sing contract without Gerry’s agree-
Bri sh commandos a er the Dieppo raid/19 ment, Gerry pulled out of the business.
Aug ’42”; and a badge of the 15th Special
Opera ons Squadron. The squadron, based My mother viewed these abrupt chang-
in the Florida panhandle, flies Air Force gun- es in direc on as a mark of Gerry’s self-re-
ships, its most notable deployment being liance. It was a quality she encouraged in
to Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War. her boys. As a young girl she loved climbing
Gerry’s a achment to the squadron badge trees, considered “unbecoming” in girls. She
is unexplained. Even more curious is the had le her family and friends a er gradu-
keepsake of an unknown man named Ben, a ng from college to teach at a girls’ school
a World War II soldier unrelated to anyone in Tehran for two years. She told stories of
in our family. her excitement standing at the bow of the
ship bound for the Mediterranean as seasick
* Americans groaned below deck, of crossing
the desert when their car lost a wheel and
I was six when Gerry le for college to study the driver chasing it down on the remaining
design, pain ng, and sculpture. I have only three, and of haggling with a bazaar vendor
vague memories of him before he le our who only agreed to sell her a rug she ad-
Illinois home: the way I shined a flashlight mired when he learned she was going back
in his eyes to wake him, the smell of oil in to America. Returning home one year into
the auto repair shop where Gerry landed a The Great Depression, she had travelled
summer job, the day he and Rod took my through Russia on trains guarded by soldiers
ping-pong ball air rifles for an a ernoon war to ward off marauding gangs of teenagers
game with high school friends. The presents hun ng for food, money, and clothing.
Gerry sent home are more vivid. Each was
exquisitely wrapped, glued, not taped, with She had been unafraid to strike out on
beau ful ribbon. One Christmas I received a her own and we should be unafraid also. I
box covered with Japanese paper. A Midwest had a different view of Gerry’s decisions. At
boy who hadn’t been to the seashore, I won- fi een, I saw adults as pragma c, willing to
dered at its contents—three layers of co on give in rather than stand up for ideals. Gerry
ba ng with shells arranged by color and size. was different. To me, dropping out of col-
lege and dives ng of the Jaguar business
As his college sophomore year was ending, demonstrated Gerry’s refusal to compro-
Gerry discovered he needed a music appre- mise. I was sure he wouldn’t have se led
cia on course to graduate. Feeling a degree for the life my parents had chosen for them-
wasn’t worth enduring a class he thought selves and me in Levi own, a ten-square-
ridiculous, he dropped out of school and mile tract-home development in suburban
was soon dra ed into the Army. During Philadelphia.
those eighteen Army months he married
his college sweetheart, Bunny, and worked Art that Gerry created in college came
as a photographer at bases in New Jersey, into our home a er he dropped out. One
Florida, and Texas. He returned to Ohio a er was a watercolor painted his sophomore
year. Long a er Gerry disappeared I showed

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the pain ng to an acquaintance who was an life. I watched my father leave the house
established ar st. She took some me to ex- at seven in the morning dressed in a blue
amine the work. “Nice, very nice” she said, suit and a Homburg hat to take the train to
and poin ng to a highlight, a fleck of bright his job at a publishing house in Manha an.
white that Gerry had made using a sharp in- I watched my mother make dinner med
strument to expose the paper, added, “an for his return home twelve hours later. I
inspired addi on!” I had tried my hand at listened during dinner to my father and
watercolor pain ng, discovering how diffi- mother discuss why so and so should have
cult that medium was to master. opened with one spade instead of two no
trump at last Saturday evening’s bridge par-
“Gerry was able to do anything he set his ty. I wanted no part of it. Adolescent, ide-
mind to,” one of his Florida friends would tell alis c, and unaware of the barriers ar sts
me. It was a view held by everyone I reached must overcome to achieve a standing, I saw
a er his death. From a dog whi led when in Penn’s portraits a future lo ier and more
he was a teenager to college pain ngs and glamorous than the bridge games, tract
sculpture, Gerry used his hands to cra beau- houses, and planned streets of suburbia. I
wanted to inhabit the world the portraits
ful objects. And throughout he worked as a evoked.
skilled automobile mechanic capped, I would
later discover, by building and maintaining One August evening when I was 17, my
engines for Formula One racing teams. mother and father walked to a neighbor’s
party while I lolled at home with friends. We
O en on Saturdays I rode my bike across talked of music, gossiped about high school,
the Delaware River on the Yardley Bridge, and shared hopes for college admission. In
through Trenton and on to Princeton where the middle of that night my mother shook
Gerry had moved from Manha an a er me awake. “Your father’s having a heart
Bunny le him in 1960. He’d quit his exec- a ack. Go to the bedroom and sit with
u ve job at Citroën, the French automobile him while I call an ambulance.” He lay on
company, and was now working as a car his back, awake, his barrel chest exposed. I
mechanic. If he did not answer his doorbell, can’t recall my words to him. He didn’t re-
I’d spend an hour or so browsing through spond. My mother returned with news that
the Princeton University Bookstore before the ambulance was on its way. She helped
biking home. Moments Preserved, the first him dress in a robe and slippers and walked
monograph of Vogue photographer Irving him to a living room chair. Si ng, he said, “I
Penn, was displayed on a table featuring feel be er.” He lived five more days.
books the store thought customers might
buy as holiday gi s. Its slip case is an im- Un l my father’s death no one close to
pressionis c photograph of a Frenchman in me had died; I’d not yet begun to learn the
a row boat. I didn’t have to open the book decorum of a bereaved family. My mother,
to know I wanted it. Spending a chunk of Rod, and Gerry, reserved and solemn at my
my summer job earnings, that fall I made father’s viewing and when friends offered
it mine and began poring over Penn’s pho- their condolences, were otherwise their
tographs of novelists, poets, playwrights, normal selves. I couldn’t escape my grief.
painters, sculptors, and composers. Shortly a er the viewing my mother told
me to stop my “incessant moping” around
By my mid-teens I had become an ob-
server of as well as a par cipant in family

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the house. “We all are struggling with your The financial disaster my mother feared was
father’s death,” she said. I changed my be- averted. Against all odds Gerry and Rod con-
havior enough to stop irrita ng her, but vinced my father’s company to provide the
when it came me for the funeral she was insurance proceeds, but the amount was
not going to risk having me break down. As hardly sufficient. To supplement them she
we waited for a car to take us to the cem- started a word-of-mouth catering business
etery, she handed me a tranquilizer, saying serving Levi own women’s bridge par es.
“This will help.” If the profits amounted to li le, the busi-
ness gave her purpose during the months
Only Rod cried as my father was lowered following my father’s death. Perhaps ca-
into his grave. tering gave her the idea that my birthday
dinner should include some of my friends.
Several weeks a er the funeral I discov- She may have also wanted this birthday to
ered my mother par ally hidden behind be special because she’d soon be leaving to
the kitchen door, weeping. “What will I do? manage an Episcopal re rement home in
What will I do?” she asked, not me, not Philadelphia. Gerry would live with me in
anyone. My father had let his employee life Levi own so I could stay in my high school
insurance expire. I was stunned seeing my un l gradua on.
mother, always proud of her self-reliance,
defeated by my father’s disregard for her Gerry and I adjusted quickly to living
financial well-being. In that moment I knew together. I went to school, Gerry to work
her like never before. The boy who thought in Princeton. I shopped for meals, the fro-
he was above our pedestrian Levi own life, zen variety. Foreign movies became our
the submissive yet secretly rebellious boy entertainment. Seeing one o en required
who would obediently down the tranquiliz- driving an hour; local theaters didn’t show
er she held out at my father’s burial while foreign films. The movies perplexed and
feeling he would never ask such a thing of disturbed me. What was up with Alain Re-
anyone, that boy dropped away, opening nais’s Last Year at Marienbad? I couldn’t
me to a deep empathic understanding of make head nor tail of it. Fellini’s La Dolce
her. She was at sea and terrified. Vita, the father’s murder of his children
and his suicide, wasn’t that shocking? Ger-
Shocked and frightened, I offered with- ry wouldn’t offer an opinion. Instead of dis-
out convic on, “It’ll be okay.” cussing how we felt about a movie, we’d
drive back in silence, as if reaching home
Regaining her composure, she replied required intense concentra on that talking
simply, “I should start dinner.” would threaten.

* So the weeks passed. The house lease
ended the month I graduated. Gerry re-
Following my father’s death, Gerry visited turned to his apartment while I arranged
Levi own more o en, some mes staying a summer rental of a Princeton one-room
overnight. Despite his dismissive a tude walk-up with a shared bath. Because I
about my dream of becoming an ar st, he worked sixty to eighty hours a week, we
started advising me on my drawing and managed to find only three Sunday a er-
pain ng, correc ng a poorly rendered per- noons to spend me together.
spec ve or sugges ng a way to be er ap-
proach a subject in watercolor.

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* memory; she and Gerry had neither the
money nor room for a bed. “Gerry worked
My internet search revealed that Gerry re- as a mechanic at a couple of motorcycle
married at the age of 48 to a woman named dealerships. He didn’t like the management
Jean. The search results included a tele- so he le for a job with a marine fabrica-
phone number, but I hesitated to call. What
if, when I asked her whether my brother on company. Nine or ten years into our
ever spoke of me, she said, “Of course. You marriage—I can’t remember exactly—he
were the reason he le .” had an accident which cut off two fingers.
He sued for damages and used the $35,000
It was a thought that terrified me during se lement to buy a 15-needle embroidery
the first years of Gerry’s disappearance. Did machine to start his own company.”
he disappear because he was angry that I
hadn’t sent him the seventy-five dollars Hurricane Andrew was the final break
from the sale of his sofa? Irra onal as it is, in their marriage, Jean said. At the me
I s ll feel as if I might have contributed to the third largest hurricane to make landfall
Gerry’s disappearance. in the United States, it hit the Florida Keys
in the early morning of August 24, 1992. It
Reluctantly, I phoned. When I iden fied churned northward and that night reached
myself she managed, “Wow, I’ve waited for Broward County where Ft. Lauderdale is
this call.” Several silent moments passed. located. Although Andrew’s winds had
She might have been gathering her thoughts. dropped by half from its 165 miles per hour
strength at landfall, witnesses described the
“Gerry and I were married more than wind as like being surrounded by fast-mov-
ten years,” she finally said. “I used to ques- ing freight trains. “It was the most frighten-
ing night of my life,” she told me. “I thought
on him about his family and past. He said I was going to die. We were together, but he
his mom and dad were dead and he had no offered no comfort, just telling me over and
other family. He told me his mom hid Jews over and over to deal with it. Gerry’s domi-
during the war, but nothing about his dad.” neering had been growing worse un l I felt
Our mother hid Jews during the war? What like I was being smothered. He wouldn’t let
was he talking about? Did guilt for cu ng me wear lips ck or earrings. I couldn’t go
himself off from our mother lead him to grocery shopping alone. He’d wait in the
make her heroic? car, watching me go into the store. When I
went to the bathroom he stood outside the
Jean was saying she had a job at a popu- door, listening.”
lar breakfast restaurant. “I was in my twen-
A peculiar incident I witnessed when
es. Gerry was 21 years older than me. He Gerry and his first wife Bunny were mar-
always ordered a short stack with coffee ried suggests he had a need to control long
and le me a bigger p than with any of the before Jean. I was si ng on the stairs of
other girls. We were married on July 3rd at our Levi own home looking into the liv-
a wedding storefront with no guests.” They ing room where my father, mother, Gerry,
lived in apartments with li le furniture. and our mother’s sister and her husband
Gerry had no books, no photographs, noth- had gathered one Saturday a ernoon. Bun-
ing from his life before Jean. ny walked into the room wearing jeans.

“I can’t believe we slept on that old sofa
bed,” she said with mild disbelief at the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Gerry looked at her a moment and then didn’t exist, Evelyn was untroubled learning
exclaimed, “Jesus! If you’re going to wear of Gerry’s estrangement un l I men oned
jeans, wear women’s.” Seeing that Bunny a le er my mother wrote a er two Christ-
was confused, Gerry went on, “the zipper’s mases had passed without a call from him.
in the front.” Bunny had come into the The Salva on Army in Ft. Lauderdale had
room wearing men’s. “Oh Gerry, really,” my promised to deliver the le er if they could
mother blurted out. Bunny looked around find Gerry. What my mother wrote I don’t
the room, smiled weakly, and sat down. know, but it made no difference. Gerry re-
fused her le er. A erward I can’t recall my
Several months a er Hurricane Andrew, mother speaking his name.
Jean filed for a divorce. “The last me I saw
him was at the signing. I don’t know where “Oh,” Evelyn almost whispered.
he went or what he did a er that. He cut
all communica on with me except for the *
monthly check I sent to cover the credit card
debt we ran up on the embroidery business.” At the me my mother wrote her le er we
were living in a kind of no man’s land, try-
Jean wanted me to speak with Evelyn, ing to find a reason for Gerry’s disappear-
widow of the owner of an automobile deal- ance. We were anxious enough to believe
ership and Formula One racing team. Gerry the most improbable causes. He must have
had built and maintained the team’s en- suffered a terrible accident which maimed
gines. “When we were married,” Jean told him; he didn’t want us to see him in that
me, “Gerry and I spent nearly every week- condi on. He’d been recruited to work for
end with Evelyn and Paul.” the CIA. Rod knew a man who worked un-
derground for the agency for years. It was
A er a series of dead ends, I finally possible. We’d have to wait un l Gerry re-
reached Evelyn. “I knew that one wouldn’t emerged into civilian life. Gerry’s refusal of
last,” she said when I told her I’d talked with my mother’s le er ended our specula on as
Jean. “The marriage was doomed from the we realized Gerry had chosen to cut us from
start. Jean was a nice girl but there was no his life. There was no more we could do.
way the marriage could survive the twenty-
one-year difference between them.” Turning Rod adopted a laissez-faire a tude;
the conversa on, I men oned Jean shared “Gerry knows where to find me,” he said. It
that Evelyn and Paul were family to Gerry. was his defense against a deeply disturbing
“We were. He was really very good to us. He realiza on he couldn’t deal with.
came to our all our daughter’s dance recit-
als. When Paul had his heart a ack, Gerry I’d grown close to Gerry through my teen-
hurried over and drove me to the hospital. age years and become closer a er my father
Paul’s death was a horrible shock to Gerry.” died. I couldn’t believe he could leave me.
Did Gerry ever speak of us? “He once shared First my father, and now Gerry? I felt bere
with Paul that he had a rela ve in publishing, and betrayed. Ironically, realizing that Gerry
but nothing beyond that. Nothing about you had deliberately chosen to cut us off didn’t
or your brother. He was extremely private.” relieve me from the thought that he might
have been maimed. He had abandoned me.
Unlike Jean, speechless at hearing the Was it possible that I had also abandoned
voice of a brother who Gerry maintained him? Giving up on Gerry might have le him

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in need. By his silence Gerry had burdened rain, snow, or freezing temperatures, when
me with nagging guilt. I hated him for it. cri ques of our projects included unwieldy
large boards and scale models, the walk to
Years later I briefly considered hiring a and from school was murderous. Only six
private inves gator but decided Gerry must blocks separated our new apartment from
have moved on; he’d be difficult if not im- school, and it was affordable.
possible to locate. Besides, I’d come to think
like Rod; Gerry knew where to find me. I was anxious to talk with my brother
about a troublesome rela onship I’d begun
During this me a brief scenario would with Mary, the third floor tenant. Morris
pop into my head and start playing again and had flown home while I’d stayed to work in
again. I was in Florida approaching Gerry’s Manha an. Like Morris, other Pra friends
house. I rang the doorbell and waited for the had le town. Friendships that developed
door to open. He showed no surprise on see- at my job remained there, limited to sharing
ing me. No words were spoken. I hauled back lunches with several coworkers at a nearby
and gave him a terrific sucker punch. The pizza joint. It was a lonely summer. I filled
scenario, which never included his reac on, my evenings with rides on the Staten Island
ended with me yelling, “You son of a bitch. I Ferry and leisurely walks along the Brooklyn
loved you. Why the hell did you leave me?” Heights Promenade or over the Brooklyn
Bridge. Sleep rarely came before one a.m.
The no on that I’d unleash my fury was
pure fantasy. Our family didn’t get angry. Hearing a knock on my door one eve-
We kept it all in. Voicing anger would up- ning, I had been surprised to find Mary.
set the decorum of family rela onships. We’d only exchanged gree ngs as we
The need to be “kind” sent our inevitable passed on the stairs. “This heat is ridicu-
anger into subterranean chambers where it lous. Join me on the roof?” she’d asked. I
festered, erup ng long a er the event in ac- welcomed the company. We climbed a lad-
cusatory le ers or face-to-face expressions der through a hatch in her bedroom. Lights
of disappointment to which there was no from neighborhood buildings wavered in
appropriate response. Because we couldn’t humid air. Although the sun had set sev-
nego ate anger with one another, we re- eral hours before, the roof held the day’s
acted to any anger with stunned silence or warmth, defea ng our effort to cool. Sug-
by fleeing to another room, out the door, ges ng we return to her apartment, Mary
or possibly, in Gerry’s case, out of our lives. led the way. As I stepped into her bedroom
it was clear it wasn’t only the roof’s heat
I was beginning my second year of archi- that had brought us downstairs.
tecture studies at Brooklyn’s Pra Ins tute
in 1964 when I last saw Gerry. We’d arranged In August Mary moved to Manha an’s
to meet at the apartment that Morris, a fel- Chelsea neighborhood. The semester was well
low architecture student, and I rented at underway when she called to invite me to her
the close of our freshman year. Comprising new digs. That weekend began Saturday visits
the building’s en re second floor, the apart- that extended into Sunday mornings.
ment was a find. During our first year of
studies, Pra housed us and other male stu- Exuding joie de vivre, Mary was singularly
dents living away from home in the Grana- likable. She loved The Beatles and Motown
da Hotel, twelve blocks from the college. In and would break into pleasurable laughter

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

when The Tempta ons sang “I’ve got so *
much honey the bees envy me.” I worked
on school assignments while she painted, I s ll ask myself why Gerry turned his back
announcing her progress with an occasion- on us. When Australian researcher Kylie
al “ah ha!” or “yes!” She enjoyed taking me Agllias asked estranged adult children why
with her to drop in on friends, for the most they disconnected from a parent, they
part downtown painters struggling to make spoke of shaming, scapegoa ng, house-
their mark in the art world. That Mary cared work and childcare beyond the normal
for me was beyond ques on. expecta ons of childhood, self-centered,
a en on seeking and demanding parents,
As I entered our apartment one a er- and manipula ve, dishonest, and powerful
noon, Morris greeted me, eager to share parents. Did any of these describe our par-
news. Our classmate, Schwartz, and Mary ents? Self-centered possibly. Manipula ve?
had spent the night together. I was stunned. I asked Rod why he thought Gerry turned
The thought that she’d invite one of my against us. “He had a difficult rela onship
friends to her bed was beyond my imagin- with mother,” Rod offered. But we all had
ing. I was hurt and angry. I didn’t hear from difficul es with our mother, her silent and
Mary the following days and then weeks, frequent disapprovals, the accusa ons long
and had no wish to work this out with her. a er an offending event.
In anger I was not unlike my brother.
It’s occurred to me that perhaps all of us,
Gerry caught the train into the city from the whole family, were the difficulty. Psy-
New Jersey where he was staying with Rod choanalyst Margaret Crastnopol’s theory of
and Rod’s family. He arrived dressed in dark “unkind cu ng back” raises that disturbing
slacks, a crisply starched dress shirt and a possibility. She describes the act as “a seem-
black bomber jacket. Florida hadn’t changed ingly arbitrary withdrawal… o en mo vated
his need to dress and groom immaculately. by unexpressed anxiety or anger.” In cut-
A memory came to mind of walking with my
mother behind Gerry to my father’s funeral ng back one person gives another the cold
recep on. “Perfect posture, perfect clothes, shoulder, breaking off emo onal engage-
perfect haircut,” she whispered to me. ment for a short me while remaining pres-
ent. Because the reason for the disengage-
Over dinner I sketched out my rela onship ment is never given, the withdrawal conveys
with Mary. I valued her friendship and thought an a tude of disapproval or devalua on. A
she valued mine. I knew she slept with others, constantly repeated way of coping with an-
but felt betrayed by her night with Schwartz. ger, as it was in our family, it has severe con-
I’d stopped talking with her, yet was unhappy sequences, crea ng a “psychic bruising that
to have done so. Torn, I asked what I should builds impercep bly over me, li le by li le
do. “Stay away from the squirrels,” Gerry re- eroding a person’s sense of well-being.”
plied, offering useless advice for a young man.
With his ul mate act of cu ng back,
I dropped him at the subway to Penn Gerry may have fled our mother’s repeated
Sta on where he’d catch a train back to silent disapproval, but neither he nor Rod
New Jersey. The following morning Gerry nor I would escape our own habit of pulling
packed his bag, le Rod’s house, and with- back, shu ng down, or walking away from
out explana on for the sudden departure, what angered or distressed us. It’s bi er
drove back to Florida. to think Rod’s laissez-faire a tude toward

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Gerry’s disappearance and my hesita on to pieces, fi ng each in its appropriate spot
hire a private inves gator may have lost a on my face mask. I repeated this process
chance to reunite the family. Both gave us eight mes, prin ng Gerry’s portrait on sen-
ways to avoid a wrenching and inevitably si zed paper, tearing the paper into small
angry confronta on. Finding Gerry might pieces, building masks of my face with Ger-
have opened the door to reconcilia on in- ry’s pasted on them. I began the project as a
stead of my imagined sucker punch. medita on on my estranged brother. By the
eighth mask I had exhausted the project. At
What happened during his stay with my wife’s request I saved the one on the ce-
Rod in New Jersey that may have triggered dar root. The others I destroyed.
Gerry’s break with the family? In all likeli-
hood, nothing. Estrangement develops over I tell visitors who comment on the mask
a long period of me rather than sudden- that it’s my face, that the cedar root came
ly, according to those who have studied it. from a friend who found it in the San Juan
Gerry’s compulsive need to repress anger, Islands. I add that a photograph is overlaid
to always present a flawless look, and to on the mask, a feature they understand-
completely rule his wives’ behavior sug- ably miss while standing back to take in the
gests feeling out of control in the family piece. Most of the mask is shades of ocher,
may have driven him to leave. He could re- the rendi on of Gerry’s skin. Only his eyes
press anger and prevent his hair and clothes and ght-lipped mouth are clearly drawn.
from becoming unruly, but in the end those
with whom he was closest were beyond his About the Author:
command. Las ng in macy required le ng
go of something that perhaps he couldn’t. Christopher Harris: The a ached memoir
essay, “The Trouble with Gerry”, is a mys-
* tery story, my sleuthing to discover why my
brother turned his back on our family for no
A mask mounted to a cedar root hangs on apparent reason. I’ve tried to make sense
our living room wall, the ves ge of a proj- of Gerry’s disappearance before. In a short
ect I abandoned. My wife layered damp 1980 New York Times op-ed piece I looked
plaster-soaked cloth strips on my oiled face. for answers in a Nathaniel Hawthorne tale
When dried, the plaster strips created a de- and the Flitcra parable in Dashiell Ham-
tailed impression from which I fashioned a me ’s Maltese Falcon, two stories of men
mask made of mulberry paper. whose estrangement is beyond explana-

Among family memorabilia I found a on. I concluded my brother’s was also. At
photograph of Gerry taken for his high the me I was studying for a Ph.D. in Amer-
school yearbook. Using the photograph’s ican Studies at Brown University. In 2000
nega ve, I printed the portrait on the pa- Routledge published “Public Lives, Private
per I had coated with photo emulsion. The Virtues: Images of American Revolu onary
two-dimensional portrait would not fit onto War Heroes, 1782-1832”, a reworking of my
my three-dimensional plaster mold with- disserta on. Since gradua ng from Brown
out disassembling it; Gerry’s mouth could I’ve enjoyed a career in the tech industry
not be properly placed without throwing followed by another as an ar st. The essay
off the nose, the eyes without throwing off is my first wri ng since the book.
the chin. So I tore the portrait into small

175

VALERIE MAUD GOLDMAN

by Valerie Angel

According to ANAD, an online resource school work to the fixa on of my teacher,
agency for ea ng disorders, “At least 30 mil- Ms. Summers. In some ways, she became
lion people of all ages and genders suffer my idol. I was so enthralled by the idea
from an ea ng disorder in the US.” At thir- that she was perfec on. Her life seemed
teen years old, I had no idea that I would flawless. She was everyone’s defini on of
become one of those thirty million people. beauty, and the life she lived appeared so
But at twelve years old, I was not among glamorous. To all ten of us girls si ng and
them. What had changed in that one year? absorbing all the informa on she gave us,
The answer to that ques on was my middle we saw no evil in who she was.
school English teacher, Ms. Summers.
Ms. Summers was twenty-seven years
At age twelve, I was enrolled in an all old, an ideal age to be, with long blonde
girls middle school, and no, it was not to hair. Her green eyes seemed to pierce right
punish me. It was not a school for misfits through you, and her smile was absolutely
or lesbians or even juvenile delinquents. It contagious. She weighed no more than one
was a place for young girls to express and hundred twenty pounds, which I now un-
become their true selves without fear of derstand is way too skinny for her age and
rejec on. But what actually happened to height. More so than just her figure, I was
me during my me there was ironic. I was cap vated with her passion for life. She saw
supposed to grow as a person and find my- the magic in all the world had to offer. Ms.
self, but instead I became someone I was Summers lived each day like an absolute
not. I became a underweight and sickly thir- adventure. And once I discovered how she
teen year old, weighing around eighty-nine lived her life, there was no turning back for
pounds. me.

In my previous middle school, I was By the me I transi oned to seventh
overlooked and was simply one out of a grade, everything was changing. For one,
class numbering near one hundred stu- I had entered life as a teenager, which felt
dents. When I got to the girls’ school, my like I had to grow up as soon as possible.
life both academically and socially began to Overnight, it seemed like my body changed
change, for the be er. My grades improved, too. I was hormonal and I was growing out
and I loved waking up every morning to go of clothes that once fit me. All my class-
to school. A er being at the school for sev- mates were changing too, but the one per-
eral weeks, my focus soon turned from my son that stayed at a constant was Ms. Sum-

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Revista Literária Adelaide

mers. When we came back from summer would sit in her class and daydream about
vaca on, it seemed like she had reached all the boyfriends and admirers she must
an even higher level of perfec on, while we have because she was so skinny. And in my
came back altered. Ms. Summers was just young mind, I assumed that once I looked
as skinny, if not skinnier than before, while like her my love life would soar.
we struggled with hormonal weight gain
and acne to top it all off. I did not under- In a vivid memory of Ms. Summers, she
stand how it was possible for her to look once announced to the class that shopped
that amazing. Her body looked great and in the children’s sec on at Gap. The very
everything she wore clung to every bone on next day, I begged my mom to take me to
her body. I was jealous because my jeans fit the mall so I could go to Gap. I craved Ms.
baggy and my thighs touched. Summers’s approval so badly, that I was
willing to wear clothes that clearly did not
That year, Ms. Summers was our sev- fit me. All my denim jeans were now capris
enth-grade homeroom teacher, so we saw because I refused to wear jeans that were
her at least two mes a day, if not more. I appropriate for my height. The most pathet-
sat in the same spot every day, and from ic part of the situa on was that I did get Ms.
that spot I could see her every bone and Summers’s approval. She said on several oc-
tendon straining to move as she would casions that my shirt was “cute” or she had
grade our papers. I saw the way her spine liked the color of my ou it. Well, of course
protruded as she hunched over in her chair, she liked my style, I dressed iden cal to her.
and I saw her dain ness associated with her
thinness. I wanted people to see my bones The second novel we read in her class
because now bones were beau ful in my that year was a book tled, Allegra Maud
eyes. I wanted my hands to appear as grace- Goldman. The name seemed silly to me.
ful as hers and my cheek bones to be more Why on earth would a mother name her
prominent. child a er an allergy medica on? The novel
I am sure was fairly interes ng, but I do not
My hands were where I saw my life think I paid much a en on to the book un l
change before my eyes. In a mere span of the protagonist threw up in a trash can. Al-
two weeks I no ced that my hands looked legra was nervous about going to the beach
bony and full of tendons like hers. I did because she did not want people to see her
not realize how a pair of hands could im- body in a two-piece swimsuit. She threw
pact me so greatly, but they did. My ini al up in her bedroom, and a erward she felt
signs of an ea ng disorder were all subcon- be er, which resulted in her having a great
scious. While I was in the midst of it, I did
not realize that I was ea ng less. When I me at the beach. I went over this scene a
le school, I would run harder and faster few mes in my head because it raised a red
at soccer prac ce, but s ll it did not occur flag to me. A few chapters later, it caught my
to me that I was losing weight. My hands eye again that Allegra threw up into a trash
were constantly cold and they became can, but this me she did it more than she
dry and cracked, but my thought process previously had. When it happened a second
was,“at least they look like hers, right?” I
would hold the pen exactly like she would me she seemed more confident in what
and imagine how wonderful her life was. I she was doing. Then from there, her purg-
ing became a nightly occurrence because it
was no longer in her control. In the novel,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Allegra’s mom sees her apparent weight during the school week, we also received
change and asks her what is wrong. In the those same messages on the weekends.
most casual of tones, Allegra replies with, Every Sunday a ernoon star ng at two,
“‘Oh, I do it every night’... I was beginning to Ms. Summers would hold a free yoga class
have an idea that there was one thing she for her students. I now realize how inap-
could say that might save me.” propriate this was. At these yoga sessions
she projected her lifestyle on to us and
Toward the end of the book Allegra is we absorbed every inch of it like sponges.
sent to the doctor and diagnosed bulimia. When she did the poses, it seemed so ef-
Being a newly thirteen year old, I had no fortless because she weighed so li le. Her
idea what an ea ng disorder was. In all yoga clothes hugged her every move, and
those thirteen years, I heard and knew that in those moments I wanted nothing more
food was good for you, that if you did not then to have a flat stomach and graceful
eat you would get sick. But here I was read- limbs. In the first few sessions, I struggled
ing that food was actually bad for you. My with the strength aspect and I was incred-
brain connected the idea that if a person ibly clumsy, but it got easier and easier as
was unhappy in their body or their life, all I con nued to go to her classes. Or at least
they had to do was throw up in a trash can that is what I kept telling myself it was easi-
and all their problems would be resolved. er because I was gaining strength. In reality,
my successes in yoga were because I was no
I was confused, but most of all, I was longer ea ng a healthy amount.
bothered by the fact that we were read-
ing a novel about a girl who struggled with A er three weeks of going to her class,
such issues. The most bothersome part of my new black yoga pants began to fit loos-
this whole ordeal was that no one told us er. My mom stopped me at breakfast soon
that it was a bad disorder to develop. Ms. a er, and asked why I looked so skinny. At
Summers never said it was a nega ve as- that point, I truly had no idea that I was los-
pect but more so promoted it. I wanted to ing weight so dras cally, but I shrugged and
hold on to my innocence and pretend that asked what she meant. She then pointed
issues like this were not real. The term and out my leggings and said they were ge ng
idea of an ea ng disorder seemed like an baggy. I dismissed her concern because I
adult issue, not something children had thought I was ea ng. During this me, I was
to deal with or even worry about. Despite s ll ea ng three meals a day, but my por on
feeling all grown up because of my recent sizes went down, and I was refusing snacks
introduc on into my teenage years, I did and sweets. As the saying goes, moms are
not know how to deal with such an issue. magic, and mine actually was because she
My fellow classmates were bothered by this could see the destruc ve behavior develop-
new realiza on as well. Of course, being cu- ing in me before I even realized it was there.
rious teen girls, we had a million ques ons.
We entrusted Ms. Summers with ques ons In that same year I turned thirteen, my
because she was our teacher, and a er all, mom got a new job, which meant she could
she was the one who wanted us to read the no longer pick us up from school or take my
book. siblings and me to our ac vi es. My mom
had to break the news to us that my broth-
Along with the subliminal ea ng dis- er and I could not play sports anymore be-
order messages she was delivering to us

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Revista Literária Adelaide

cause she would not have the me to take which made me fall in love with the idea
us to prac ces.When I look back at my child- being skinny all over again. Around spring
hood, I remember my brother and I always
being in some type of sport. We were very me, my parents and teachers (except for
ac ve kids and my parents sacrificed a lot Ms. Summers) confronted me about my ap-
to keep us healthy and entertained. I was parent change in appearance. I denied their
heartbroken because I loved playing sports, claims and looked to Ms. Summers for so-
but then I became more scared by the fact lace, because I knew she would understand.
that I would gain weight if I was not ac ve. And it is exactly what she did, she made me
The once-a-week yoga classes were not feel be er by encouraging me to not eat
going to cut it anymore, so I decided to try rather than helping a sickly child in need.
skipping lunch as a subs tute for not being She would make comments on how “strong
able to work out. my body was looking” and even that I gen-
erally looked “good.”
My parents would help me pack lunches
every day, and I felt no shame in the fact A few weeks later, I took a er Allegra
that all of it was going to end up at the bot- Maud Goldman, and I threw up my break-
tom of the trash can once I got to school. I fast in the school bathroom. I tried to do it
kept it hidden from my parents for a long as quietly as I possibly could, the first me,
because I was ashamed of what I was doing.
me, or I guess I assumed they were too Then as it became a daily occurence, I tried
naive to figure it out. My “diet” was work- to be louder when I threw up. I hoped that
ing so well that I began not to even want someone would walk in or a teacher would
breakfast. My ac ons became calculated walk by and hear me throwing up and ask
to the point where, when my dad would go me what was wrong. I played a scenario
back to his room to change in the morning, over and over in my head that one of my
I would run outside to dump my breakfast friends or teachers would sit there on the
over the backyard wall. I say my ac ons bathroom floor, and I would confess about
were calculated because I knew my parents all the harm I had been doing to my body.
checked the trash cans to make sure I was But it never happened like that, no one
not throwing away the food, but I knew came to rescue me, and I just sat there with
they would never check outside, especially my whole body heaved over the toilet, with
behind the fence. a cold sweat and chills running over me.

During lunch my friends would ask me It was not un l the summer of my soon-
where my lunch was. I used excuses like, “I to-be eighth grade year that Ms. Summers
accidentally le it at home” or “I’m just not fell from grace. I was on a school-sanc oned
feeling very hungry today,” but most o en I camping trip, and per usual I was not eat-
would say “my stomach doesn’t feel good.” ing. The counselors were concerned, and I
And most mes my stomach actually did refused to talk to anyone but Ms. Summers.
not feel good, because I was starving. But During the trip, I started my period and to
no ma er how hungry I got, my body just say the least I was mor fied. In all my plan-
would not accept the food. ning and packing, I managed to forget to
pack feminine care products. I assume that
I looked like Ms. Summers and I loved it. I could have confided in my peers and other
I felt that I had reached a level of perfec on. camp leaders, but instead I took my prob-
I even received more a en on from her,

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lem to Ms. Summers. I midly knocked on down she knew exactly why I was doing it,
her door, and she invited me in. She was but she wanted the sa sfac on of hearing
fresh out of the shower, and I felt uncom- me say it.
fortable to see a teacher who was mostly
naked. Her brown towel was hanging limply I kept my mouth shut and my eyes down
from her shallow figure as she searched for at the lake, while she looked up at the sun-
a sanitary napkin. set. Ms. Summers told me that her sister
had an ea ng disorder when they were
I sat there on her bed, and became in- growing up. She disclosed to me that her sis-
creasingly more embarrassed that I was in ter was even on her death bed at one point,
such an in mate moment with a teacher. In and had to stay at a hospital where her and
all my years, I had never seen an adult body the family had assigned mes for visita on.
outside of my immediate family and it felt Ms. Summers’s story made me feel sorry for
weird. I giggled to myself at how small she her sister, but I realized she was lying to me.
was, like I could give out a puff of air and The ea ng disorder did not happen to her
she would float away. Ms. Summers handed sister, it actually happened to her. In that
me the pads, and I tried to be on my way as moment, I recalled seeing a picture of her
quickly as possible. Before I had complete- sister, who was healthy, lively, and had the
ly made it out the door, she pulled me into body of a mother who had children. Then I
an awkward hug. Her dripping hair spilled looked back at Ms. Summers and saw her
over on my shoulders, and being pressed for who she truly was, a sad woman who
against a teacher like that le a sour pit in did not eat. We walked back to the cabin,
my stomach. The most profound realiza on and she held my hand to comfort me, but all
from that moment was that her body was I wanted was to get away. When we finally
not actually beau ful, it more scared me reached the cabin I gave a sigh of relief be-
than anything else. A er I took the pads, I cause I knew what I was doing to myself was
tried to distance myself from her as much foolish. I went inside, served myself dinner
as possible the rest of the trip. and ate the most delicious meal I had eaten
in a long me. Maybe in all reality the food
Well, the separa on did not work as well was not actually that good, but what made
as I hoped because the camp counselor it so special to me was that when I ate it, I
decided that Ms. Summers should be the felt no guilt.
one to confront me about my lack of inter-
est in food. She led me out from the main The rest of the summer passed, and I
house area and we took a walk around the hardly had any ea ng issues. Even be er
lake. Ms. Summers se led into a patch of than that was the fact that Ms. Summers
grass where the dock met the water, and not once crossed my mind. At this point I
she placed her bony arms around my bony thought that I was truly past this manipula-
body. As we sat there, I tried to sit perfectly
s ll so my torso had less contact with hers. I on. Eighth grade came around the corner,
felt awkward and disgusted. I had finally be- and I was secretly glad that Ms. Summers
come her and it did not feel rewarding as I would no longer be my homeroom teacher.
thought it would. Ms. Summers asked why I I would only have to see her, at most, once
was not ea ng, but I could not admit to her a day, which in my opinion was one me too
face that it was because of her. I think deep many. When I walked back into her class-
room, she immediately tried to pick up with

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our friendship, if that is what it can even be had caused. I know she heard me throwing
called. But this me, I wanted no part in it. up, but instead of trying to help me or ask
I realized that even seeing Ms. Summers what was wrong, I heard her flush the toi-
again brought back unwanted psychologi- let, wash her hands, and walk out the door.
cal problems that made me not hungry or I sat there in u er shock, looking down at
not able to stomach food. It felt as though the mess I had made, not knowing what to
all the hard work and progress I had made think. It was clear now that Ms. Summers
during the summer was suddenly flushed had no regard for anyone but herself. This
down the toilet, literally. realiza on made me furious that I had let
it go that far. I cleaned myself off and nev-
It was early winter and Ms. Summers er looked back. It is extremely ironic that
was handing back one of our graded English Ms. Summers was able, so easily, to dismiss
essays. When I was handed back my essay, the clear signs of ea ng disorders because
I immediately flipped to the back page, within the span of those two years, all ten
and my eyes fell on a red “C-” on the bot- of us girls developed some type of ea ng
tom corner. I felt completely crushed at the disorder.
sight of the grade. In my opinion, I believed
my essay was worth more, especially since The news of the eighth-grade class not
we spent class me working on it, with ea ng spread like wildfire. The upper ad-
peer edi ng, and Ms. Summers had even ministra on tried to tackle it as quickly as
skimmed over it a few mes. I figured if my possible so the younger girls did not find
essay had been that bad, she would have out because we were their role models. One
men oned it to me before I submi ed the teacher in par cular, Ms. Welin, stepped in,
final dra . Now that I replay that memory which may have saved a lot of us from per-
of my graded essay, I can assume that she manent damage. Ms. Welin made the deci-
gave that grade to spite me. Ms. Summers sion that it would be best if Ms. Summers
was mad that I had pulled away from her were to resign. I remember the day clearly
influence, and I was less sick, whereas she that Ms. Summers announced to us that
had appeared to be ge ng worse. she would be leaving in a few weeks to go
back to her home in New York. I sat there
Ms. Summers knew that ge ng a bad in pure shock. How could she actually be
grade would hurt my feelings because I leaving us? Even though, at this point, I was
had always prided myself on ge ng good over her anyway, I was s ll saddened that
grades. A er the period was over, I ran to she was leaving. I raised my hand several
the bathroom and cried, si ng on the floor.
I also knew that a er every class period she mes to ask her why she was leaving, but
went into that same restroom, so I picked every me I did so, she avoided it or looked
myself off the floor and posi oned myself past me.
over the toilet. With the same hand I had
used to wipe my tears, I placed my two fin- Not un l a few years ago did I learn that
gers to the back of my throat and forced Ms. Summers was not allowed to interact
myself to throw up. I wanted Ms. Sum- with me anymore. The administrators had
mers to see all the pain she had caused me, met and found that my rela onship with
I wanted her to feel bad, but most of all I Ms. Summers, through no fault of my own,
wanted her to take the blame for what she appeared roman cally inappropriate. They
searched her phone and found text mes-

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sages, phone calls, and Ms. Summers even what she said to me that day. I guess that
admi ed to wri ng me le ers throughout just goes to show how me goes on and we
the summer. But of course, I did not realize are able to move on from our pain.
that these were bad. I was excited that my
teacher thought I was cool enough to talk to I con nued to cry for several days a er
outside of school. she le , but I vividly remember waking up
one day and no longer feeling sad. I realized
On Ms. Summers’s last day teaching, we it was foolish for me to be sad because she
had a tea party. She announced to us that was a toxic person to be around. I then be-
at the end of the party she had gi s for gan to feel relieved because she no longer
all of us. Through the whole tea party we had any control over my life. I was finally
were at the edges of our seats with excite- free from her influence. It felt like the first
ment, wondering what she had bought us.
In fact, she did not buy anything for us at me since I had started the girls’ school was
all, she was just giving us her old clothes. I able to fully breathe again.
She spread out the extra small clothes on
the desks and let us take what we wanted. I am grateful that Ms. Summers lied to
Ms. Summers claimed that she was trying me, because if she had not, I might not be
to limit the stuff she had to move back, but here today wri ng this. I was sick, very sick,
in reality, she was disposing of her “binge” all because I wanted the approval from a
or her “fat” clothes. We, of course, saw no person who may not live past her for es. It
harm in this. We were simply thrilled to was a dark me in my past, and for a very
have a piece of her s ll with us. Most of the long me I was resen ul at the fact that I
parents were furious at her ac ons, as if it had to go through all the pain, like she had
was to stab all of us in the back that she had made me go through that pain right along-
been fired. My mom never voiced her opin- side her. But I have come to realize that no
ion to me directly un l recently, but I real- ma er how badly I wanted to look like her,
ized that a er several months had passed my gene cs and my life had a different plan
since Ms. Summers leaving, I started to no- for me. If I had not gone through the pain of
an ea ng disorder, I would not have found
ce some of the clothes I had picked were one of my passions, which is running. Even
missing. though back in middle school, I was run-
ning to lose weight, along the way I found
The day Ms. Summers moved away, I my love and talent for the sport. I would
sobbed uncontrollably. At the going away not have achieved my high school track and
party, I made sure I was the last person to cross country successes had it not been for
hug her. As we said our goodbyes, I tried to that me in my life. I am happy with who I
soak up every second of our hug. Ms. Sum- am, and I am proud to have rescued myself
mers hugged me ght and held my head because that is one of the bravest ac ons a
close to her chest. Just as I was about to let person can do.
go, she kissed the top of my head and whis-
pered something in my ear. I am sure that
fourteen-year-old Valerie replayed what
she said countless mes over in her head,
but si ng here wri ng this at twenty years
old, I cannot, for the life of me, remember

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About the Author:

Valerie Angel is from Santa Fe, New Mexico
home to the unique climate of a desert lo-
cated in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.
She is a current sophomore at New Mexi-
co Highlands University, majoring in Social
Work. Valerie began her wri ng career from
a young age, and con nues to write in cre-
a ve nonfic on and poetry.

183

I WONDER WHERE
THAT VIDEO IS NOW

by Molly Blumhoefer

Jess, Devin and I had gu er punk boyfriends, I didn’t have a room there, so I slept on the
dirt covered squa ers who travelled through floor. Mom’s house was the safe one. She
Minneapolis during the warmer months. In lived a few blocks from Dad’s. She did not
the mid-nine es, most of this subculture allow us to drink or smoke there. She didn’t
was comprised of men. Unlike them, we have drug dealers living in the basement or
lived there all year round. Only fourteen, I’d perverts for friends. She blessed every cran-
o en disappear onto the streets for days, ny with holy water and prayer. I shared the
but I hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to ven- a c space with my sister. Dad’s house was
ture beyond the urban core. where I went when I wanted to get messed
up indoors. I stayed at Mom’s when I need-
Devin lived with her Dad in a giant house ed to rest.
in a wealthy neighborhood in southwest
Minneapolis. He drove a car worth more Like most teenagers, Jess, Devin and I
than either of my parent’s houses. He spent were foolish. Our main ac vi es were smok-
a lot of money on Devin: her dogs, a person- ing schwag weed and drinking cheap whis-
al fitness trainer, and private school. Their key and beer under bridges with our guys
kitchen was stocked with whatever she re- un l we could no longer see straight. I was
quested. Jess’s situa on was comparable. o en the supplier of substances since I could
She lived with her dad in a large cookie-cut- get them from my dad’s place.
ter home in a wealthy suburb. Their lawn
was perfectly manicured and the interior Smashing bo les against spray-paint-
of the house was clean and quiet. Both of ed cement columns, was a perfect game
them would receive cars for their birthdays. for people only able to focus with one eye
They both had access to cash on demand. open. The heavy city traffic buzzed over-
Daddy’s girls. head, concealing our pandemonium.

During the summer I lived on the streets When not under bridges, we panhan-
and between two ny houses on the south dled for booze or for bean burritos. Some-
side of Minneapolis proper. Dad’s was
crawling with hood rats and illicit ac vi es. mes we’d browse music shops where I’d
sell the CDs that people had forgo en at

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my dad’s. This is what we were doing when “Yes, hope to see you there, ladies.” We
I no ced a man with a bandana-adorned thought he was the real-deal.
afro and tailing us. He looked like what Jimi
Hendrix might’ve looked like if he’d grown The next Saturday it was sunny, hot and
to be as old as one of our fathers. The way muggy. We were wearing the exact same
he was checking us out reminded me of clothes as we had been when he first met
how my dad checked out the teenaged girls us. Jess in her bright red plaid pants and
that par ed at his house. But by the looks of white wife-beater, me in my long black skirt
his denim ou it from the 60s, this guy was and ght black tank, and Devin in her dirty,
bolder; I knew he would make contact. patched dress. We caught the #21 bus into
St. Paul. We had determined the best route
In a slow, pot-inflected voice he spoke, using paper bus maps. I felt like a tourist in
my own Twin Ci es. St. Paul was rarely a
“Waaaaow. You three are exactly the des na on, even though I lived just across
ladies I was looking for. I’m making a mu- the river. The ride took over an hour.
sic video. Yeah. For a rock band. You know,
yeah, I’m a producer.” We approached a big brick building, the
color of sand. We walked down several long
His head nodded to a groove that flowed pale green-colored hallways with flickering
through his whole body. fluorescent lights. Not finding any door that
had his name on it, we started walking up and
“You with your spiky, rockin’ hair, and down flights of steps. I was beginning to feel
you with your ght, black dress. Hot. Per- nervous as we entered one ghostly hall a er
fect. Cooool.” another. I spoke up, which was out of charac-
ter, “Um, I’m not sure about this you guys.”
He was referring to Jess and I. We were
all a li le grimy, but the two of us looked Jess said, “Molly, fuckin chill. Its’s fine.”
slightly less ragamuffin than did Devin in her Devin laughed. I wanted to turn around and
patched-up clothes and dreadlocks. She was leave, but I was not about to wander the
monochroma c. Her soiled a re matched warehouse without them. They weren’t as
her dirty blond hair. I too was monochro- scared as I was. By age fourteen I had already
ma c, but on purpose. I had black every- been exposed to danger at my dad’s, to men
thing: long black hair, long black skirt, and with guns and bad inten ons towards me.
black boots. Jess’s liberty spikes were ma- I was very cau ous. Aside from the risky
genta. They complimented her large bright experiences that they manufactured them-
blue-green eyes. She was striking. selves, they were sheltered, naïve.

“If you wanna be in a video, I’m hav- A er many steps inside grey stairwells, a
ing audi ons on Saturday a ernoon at my guy poked his head out of one of the ware-
space.” He took out a business card: CJH house spaces. We asked him if he knew
Studio Produc ons. Mr. Clarence J. Harrell. where we could find “the man that looks
The address was in St. Paul. “Oh, and you’ll like Jimi Hendrix”. I didn’t think he’d know
get paid. Yeah.” who we were talking about because he was
so square: a skinny white guy in his thir es,
Jess grabbed the card and in her loud wearing an untucked bu on up t-shirt and
voice, the kind you hear and instantly think straight pants.
that the person can probably sing well, said,
“Really Man?”

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But his eyes lit up behind his nerd glass- He got up from the couch, walked to the
es and he took us directly to Clarence J. stereo a few feet away, and turned on Prince.
Harrall’s door. I was intoxicated, more at ease, but felt pow-
erless. Even if we are “safe” right now, what
“Hey man. These girls are here to see you.” could happen to us or this video? I thought.

Clarence had a giant space, a few thou- He was producing so core porn, not
sand square feet. It was dark and draped music videos. I was familiar with it from my
with different colors of velour and leop- dad’s house; the Spice Channel was always
ard print fabric. There was so ligh ng in on the television and Dad had porn tapes
select spots around the studio, but every- stacked up to the ceiling. But this was illicit.
thing else went into blackness. HVAC ducts We were underage. I knew that. The irony
reflected the light, giving a sense of how was nonetheless bi ng. Savages, perverts.
enormous the space was. Brighter lights Thoughts about the thoughts that men like
pointed towards a clearing in the middle them had, climbed my spine.
of the room, framed by fabrics. There were
large pedestals and a bed at which cameras A song that Jess liked came on. She imme-
aimed. diately ran to one of the pedestals, ascended
to the top, and started dancing. Devin and I
One of the lights was on a table that had walked to the center of the stage and danced
several bo les of liquor and other colorful near each other. He directed us to take off
liquids. He mixed us a few strong drinks and our top layer of clothes and to kiss one an-
told us to relax on a couch. We sat. I took other, which we did. Devin’s tongue was
a few sips. Mine tasted like fruit but also mushier than I had imagined it would be.
pop—maybe grenadine cherried coke with He directed Jess to show her “ es”, which
rum. I looked at Jess and Devin to again she did. He commented “Look at those lit-
show my concern. Jess just smiled and tle cherries. Those are perfect.” Devin and I
Devin laughed. I knew there was no turning then showed our breasts, as if in compe -
back. I sat quietly, unmoving except for the
glass to my mouth. on. We did not get the same reac on. I was
humiliated and jealous that he did not like
A er a few sweet drinks, he grabbed a mine as much. At one point Jess, loaded with
remote and turned on a television that was extreme excitement yelled “Are we going to
on a tall wheeled cart, the kind that would be on The Box?” The Box was a less popular
roll into a classroom on video day. It was off version of MTV; viewers called in and paid
to the side of the stage. with their credit cards to have the sta on
play their requested music videos.
“Look at these beau ful girls. This is how
their audi ons went. This is what I want you I couldn’t believe she was enjoying her-
to do. You’re much pre er than them.” self, that she actually thought this guy was a
real producer. I imagined Clarence J. Harrell
On the screens girls a li le older than us hanging out with the guy who directed us
danced around naked, making out with one to his door watching us on video, drinking
another on the pedestals and on the bed. I nasty mixed drinks and smoking weed.
didn’t see any talent whatsoever.
We danced and laid around for at least
“Can you do this?” 30 minutes, kissing and pe ng one anoth-

Of course we could.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

er. I waited for it to be over. Every imagin- He knew what we had come back for. He
able way to die crossed my mind. Did he was already standing in the doorway, in his
drug our drinks? Does he have a gun? Will underwear, gut hanging out into the hall.
he rape us first? Are there dead women in
the warehouse? I couldn’t breathe. “I wish you ladies would stay and work
some more. Here.” He put out his hand and
Clarence stood up from the couch and showed a single $5 bill. Jess snatched it.
took off his pants. He wore a shiny brown- “What the fuck?”
ish-purple leopard print briefs. I looked over
at Jess and Devin again. I felt a li le relieved Was she about to argue for more pay? I
by their expressions of surprise. But thought thought.
that we were done for. He was going to try
to rape us. We’d have to fight. “Let’s go.” I demanded.

“Hey, Jess, any one of you ladies, come Devin too: “Let’s go!”
over here and measure my dick”.
We ran back down the hall and got
It was large and barely fit inside his dressed inside the stairwell. We le the sat-
underwear. I was sickened with emo on, iny blankets on the steps.
but before fear consumed me, Jess finally
snapped. In the front parking lot, we lit cigare es.
A er one puff, I was elated. I looked at Jess
“NO WAY! Fuck you!” She shouted. “We’re and said sarcas cally, “Are we going to be
out of here!” on The Box?”

Finally. Devin and I followed Jess’s lead. We all started laughing.
We grabbed blankets from the bed and
floor and wrapped the fabric around our Jess responded, s ll laughing: “Well, we
almost naked bodies. Hurriedly, we gath- got five bucks. Let’s get curly fries.”
ered our shoes and clothes and clutched
them against the blankets. The whole me, There was an Arby’s across the street.
Clarence never said a word to us, and I nev- We shared an order of fries and used the
er looked up to see how he was reac ng. rest of the money to bus back to Minneap-
In less than 30 seconds we were running olis. We were red and barely spoke as the
down the hall towards a stairwell. Nobody bus rolled through St. Paul and across the
followed us. river. Devin went back to her dad’s house.
There, she would eat her favorite food,
Almost at the end of the hall, Jess said: while cuddling her dogs on the couch in her
“Wait! We didn’t get paid!” big bedroom. Jess’s dad picked her up in Up-
town and drove to their house in the sub-
I said: “Who fucking cares!?” urbs where she would listen to loud punk
music in the basement. I went to my mom’s
Devin was screaming like she was in her house and fell asleep on my ma ress on the
backyard, playing tag. a c floor.

But before I had me to argue, we were Author’s note: Names have been changed
already following her back to his space, to protect iden es
moving just as quickly as we had when we
first exited.

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About the Author:

Molly Blumhoefer is a na ve Minnesotan
but currently lives in Albuquerque, New
Mexico, with her husband. She is a part-

me natural sciences instructor and a full-
me sustainability project manager at Cen-
tral New Mexico Community College.

188

DOMINION

by John Casey

deference for despair Dominion

s ll sodden frigid morn Cau ously serious, ptoeing a line between
muddled ubiquitous shadows feigned compassion and accusa on. They
sca ered, bri le leaves at foo all say You’re almost right, in an uncertain,
raven sky black thoughts dark path narrow scope of the thing. We understand
where you’re coming from, but it’s a circular
restlessly listless lost soul logic of sorts. And it doesn’t reconcile with
in a funereal slate suit the facts, as they are. And then they say The
trudging toward bo om line is, accountability lies with you.
the same red aimless train Though they don’t say it out loud. Thinly
preordained purposeless rou ne veiled is the language of the powerful.
second verse same as the first
And they sit, elbows propped on dusty
raw deal wrong track wrong song dogma-laden volumes. Head bent forward
detest it all yet hold it close enough to focus just over the top of their
there is tenebrous comfort dull gold, wire-rimmed glasses. As if that’s
in deference for despair the reason for looking down on you. Hand
when it’s all there is at the ready near an an que black fountain
with no way out and so pen set neatly aside the sheet of paper that
love it darkly somehow, with a stroke, makes everything
so cau ously explained, however so thinly
veiled, however so nausea ngly wrong, right.

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Discrimina ng Taste Adelaide Literary Magazine
Am I?

He’s got no style. High-water department Oh, empathy. How painfully difficult to
store slacks. Eight-dollar polo made by eight- master. To comprehend how others feel. To
year olds in Bangladesh. White tube socks, be capable of rela ng, not to what is said or
are you kidding? Complaining every year how done, rather, to the associated thought.
he wasn’t promoted, yet again. Even though
his numbers were be er than most everyone I think, therefore I am. They think,
else’s. If he’s so smart, why doesn’t he dress therefore, they must be. Yet they do not
for the next level? Because he’s socially think as I. Not remotely. And in my careful
retarded. And he’s got no style. Right? assessment, I feel they think wrongly.
That they then may not exist as I do.
She’s so fat. Why is she even at the gym? She’ll
be talking real fast and wide-eyed tomorrow Ergo, they are not quite. Poten ally lesser.
at her lunch break, way, way too eager. Her Perhaps I exist alone? But I find this
coworkers will pretend to be interested unacceptable. And the alterna ve, more
and listening about how many miles she iniquitous, that my thinking is specious, and
“ran” on the treadmill. And all about how I am different, the lesser. That I do not exist
so few people are there at six a.m., a dab of as do others. But what if I accept there may
mayonnaise on her cheek as she scarfs down be an aberra on in the way I think? And
a footlong. Disgus ng, don’t you agree? if I try to assess, to isolate it, and make an
effort to understand the thinking of others?
They’re all a bunch of losers. Every Friday I believe both must be done for either to
night at the bowling alley (not the nice one be done, to any degree of accuracy.
uptown), each one bent more on swilling
skunky beer than rolling a 300. Back at home, I can then perform a transla on of sorts.
their future ex-wives shove microwave And see others and myself as we are. This
dinners at their dirty, scrawny kids, all of does not mean their thinking is always
them locked in on (and incrementally dumber right. But at least I am now cognizant of
from) the latest “reality” TV ignominy. I where they may have gone wrong.
think I can speak for all of us when I say that
they are, collec vely, a waste of oxygen. If I cannot empathize with others, genuinely
connect my thoughts and experiences with
I’m a maven at reading people. Everyone is theirs, I cannot fathom, or even validate my
sized up in three seconds flat. Clothes and own existence. What is more, I will never
shoes, fitness, looks and weight. Bust size, consider my own par al, or nonexistence, as
jewelry, car and watch. Gait, eye contact, smile, I am unaware of the aberra on. I would be
vocabulary and mannerisms. Emo onal control, incognizant of the actuality that I am not.
confidence, intelligence, and sociability.
Three seconds is all it takes. Then they are
tucked away, assessed, categorized, and filed.
It’s an efficient system. Logical, empirical,
foolproof. I don’t assign any real value to
what you think, but wouldn’t you agree?

190

reminiscence Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author:

slow falls the snow
laughing, glasses clinking
cheery conversa on, an cipa on
new beginnings
but I am entranced, by the window
lost in the Orphic ballet
of countless crystalline nonpareils
dancing gracefully down
to alight on white obscurity
and I find myself imploring the wind
keep them alo
just a li le longer

John Casey grew up in New Hampshire and grad-
uated from the U.S. Air Force Academy in 1992.
He earned an MA in Interna onal Affairs from
Florida State University in 1994, then began his
flying career as a tac cal airli and developmen-
tal test pilot. Casey le the cockpit in 2005 to
work as an interna onal affairs strategist and
diplomat at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.,
embassies in Germany and Ethiopia, and at
Randolph Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas,
where he re red in 2015. Since then, he has fo-
cused on his wri ng. His work has appeared in
numerous literary journals, magazines and on-
line blogs. Raw Thoughts is Casey’s first book,
and he is currently working on his upcoming
novel, Devolu on. He is passionate about rac-
quetball and fitness, music, travel and nature,
and the human spirit. His wri ng is inspired by
the incredible spectrum of people, places and
cultures he has experienced throughout his life.

191

NIGHT HYMN

by R. Nikolas Macioci

Night Hymn They drive to the reservoir and park.
She’s not scared un l his hand smothers
A pros tute saunters back and forth her mouth. Her eyes freeze. He drags her
under a streetlight, takes permission into a stand of trees. The boning knife
from the night to be there. She poses, slices into her body like a bird through
walks a few steps, poses again. She moonlight. For a long me, her ribcage
is a beginner, barely able to smooth bleeds the same song. He is a messenger
out her movements. delivering his package to the night.

A car pulls to a stop. She bends to its Pulling away from the parking lot,
window. She makes a nothing-doing he heads back to the city, thinking
head mo on, and the car drives away. of the future and of the day someone
will die.
Watching the street as if she were at
the seashore looking for shells, she
seems nervous as the devil in church,
draws back against a brick building.
She seems calmer when she steps
from shadow, trimmed in a slant of light.

Another car waves her over. She
crosses to it, hears his words, and opens
the door.

He has black eyebrows that hood his eyes,
a longish face, a blurred jawline that
prevents him from being completely
handsome.

192

The Laws Of Exclusion Revista Literária Adelaide
Bad Poems

I was reared on isola on, a child When I crumple a poem,, I crush moon, rain,
slender and dreaming of protec on. the clock on my desk all of which have been
I gave life to plas c soldiers and dominant images at some point. I am only
circus performers on the ledge of ridding myself of inept work. Some say,
the Philco console radio. Even then with an intake of breath, that I should never
I knew I couldn’t make it through throw a poem away, but the bad ones mount
days without imagina on, so while up more than I can count on both hands. Rarely
listening to The Lone Ranger I changed do I glow with a good one, and I gag from
the whereabouts of the figures to a unskillful consonance, disassociate myself from
circle of sun on a flowered carpet. amateur assonance. I don’t think it’s a joke
to join a jous ng group of poets. It might
Then one pre-teen Sunday a ernoon make my iambic jabber into something
when I thought I’d rot away from boredom worthwhile. I’ve withered into wri ng about
following a mashed potato-roast beef-parents lonely women and worn-out rela onships.
bickering rou ne, I le the house and When I wad up a poem, I widen my horizons
walked a dozen blocks to the Russell theater, for something new, but the challenge is how
dropped myself into a seat, watched to write something new out of old words.
lights dim on the beginning of escape. I’m much more successful fashioning paper
airplanes from a legal pad than I am at
Film clicked through the projector and penning a poem. I’m wedged between a rock
made a world where a poet was born, and a haiku, and for rhyme’s sake, don’t know
a world where I slowly dri ed away what to do. Give me another beer, and
from a dysfunc onal family and let I promise to preserve the damnest doggerel
words off the screen become my you ever deemed possible.
dialogue with make-believe and loneliness.

193

The Discourse Of Seduc on Adelaide Literary Magazine
Lighthouse At Marblehead Peninsula

What touches you ero cally is words. The white pyramidal, cone-shaped tower
You need language burs ng with innuendo, rises fi y feet above rocky shore.
images that demonstrate desire, so take Sheets of sun glare off its limestone, lightning.
my words, and I’ll lead you into sexual Bright. Perspec ve, aims my camera
completeness. I will change from clothes upward. Light dazzles my eyes, washes out
into verbal nakedness, make a poem the viewfinder, but I shoot the picture anyway
in which we are locked in the same skin, without seeing the red catwalk and roof.
every failure forgo en. I will shed Stepping into shade, I note that I’ve
misgivings and begin endless warmth with snapped the picture I wanted.
wri en syllables. My meanings will massage
your meltdown, moisten the mystery between Visitors mill the picnic area
us. Sentences will sa sfy, phrases flow near the lake, climb fi y feet to the parapet,
into you like molten feathers. My words and look down on me. I’m told by the man
will guarantee you grab air with handsful selling three-dollar ckets that at night
of feeling and weep for wan ng more the fresnel lens s ll flashes green every
u erances. We will dwell in a language six seconds. He says the lighthouse has
limbo, lie together and listen to sounds guided sailors away from shores since
that limn images lovers live. I will write 1822, yet there are those who sank
and release you into repe ous rhythms to their deaths, lungs burs ng for oxygen.
you will remember in the poli cs of your body
I walk a few yards to the lake, listen
to water splash against rocks, and think
about bones tucked into the deep, about
young and old robbed of their lighthouse
warning when waves wrapped foamy ps
around the bow, collapsed masthead, and
swallowed the hull. For them, the lighthouse
winked its intermi ent green light too late.

194

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author:

R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio
State University, and for thirty years taught for
the Columbus City Schools. In addi on to En-
glish, he taught Drama and developed a Writers
Seminar for select students. OCTELA, the Ohio
Council of Teachers of English, named Nik Macio-
ci the best secondary English teacher in the state
of Ohio. Nik is the author of two chapbooks:
Cafes of Childhood and Greatest Hits, as well as
four books: Why Dance, Necessary Windows,
Cafes of Childhood (the original chatbook with
addi onal poems), and Mother Goosed. Cri cs
and judges called Cafes of Childhood a “beau-

fully harrowing account of child abuse,” but
not “sen mental” or “self-pitying,” an “amaz-
ing book,” and “a single unified whole.” Cafes of
Childhood was submi ed for the Pulitzer Prize
in 1992. In addi on, more than two hundred of
his poems have been published here and abroad
in magazines and journals, including The SOCI-
ETY OF CLASSICAL POETS Journal, Chiron, Clark
Street Review, and Blue Unicorn.

195

THE UNFOLDING
OF A DESTINY

by Chic Scaparo

A Morning in December West on 90

I woke from a dream her toes
her face, ethereal on the windshield
the expression, serious, yet peaceful her hair
not the face of a stranger covers her face
but of one I’d known once before an eye
a sad smile
her name whispered in my mind Bjork elevates the mood
like a spring song
in the cold of winter I fall a li le bit more
telling me to wait for the sun a li le bit harder
it will shine once more and its light
will cut wide the cloth of a darkened sky she’s melancholy
showing me myself again yet happy
I reach out
the calm in her eyes intrigued and confused me her hand is so
the confusion seemed to excite silky
rather than bewilder charged
it was a welcome feeling and
I longed to meet her the wind
shi s her dark hair
Why did this beau ful woman come to me? a second eye
Why was it her face that brightened a laugh
the shadows of my thoughts?
Maybe to show me a new peace?
Or maybe just to find
us

196

I’m falling Revista Literária Adelaide
but with a des na on
an understanding Born into the Now
a gap between us
connec ons turn to barriers I slide her toes
it’s an inevitable road between my fingers
yet we con nue to drive her ankles
near my lips
Bjork’s next song begins I kiss her heel
she hits the volume then her arch
and sings my opposite hand caresses her calf
and slides slowly down her thigh
stopping to caress her stomach

I explore not every inch
but every cen meter
of her so
intoxica ng
skin

her chest heaves
slowly at first
then more rapidly

she ignites me

our eyes meet
I feel her absorb into my skin
into my every thought
I become one with her

my heart pounds like ocean waves
on the rocks of a jagged coast
my once empty heart drinks her in
as though its thirst would never be quenched
I lean to her
embracing her closely
like a cold stranger
embracing a warm gree ng

I never want this moment to end
I press my mouth gently against her lips
and breathe her in

197

East on 90 Adelaide Literary Magazine

I can s ll smell I only want to
her witness
not perfume The Dance
not shampoo of
her Fading
Love
I can s ll feel
her smooth About the Author:
electric
skin Chic Scaparo is a filmmaker/writer living in Cen-
her sweet kiss tral New York and works for an ad agency as a
s ll lingers video producer. He’s created many short films
on my and has wri en numerous screenplays, short
lips stories and poems as well a completed 60,000
and dances with word novel, Misty Rivers. Chic has had the fortu-
her scent nate opportunity to spend many years traveling
the United States mee ng many wonderful peo-
I love you ple along the way ul mately returning home to
so much be close to his family and lifelong friends.
she said
passionately 198
only hours ago

I drive in silence
the wheels
hum somberly
beneath me
gusts of wind
find entry
into the cabin
there’s no music
no laughter

I reach for the radio
to break the solace of
rushing sound
and stop