Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 52, December 2021

COFFEE SHOP

by R.J. Fox

Emily’s fantasy cliché of meeting cute was favor of supporting small business (though,
bruised, but not broken. Her romantic admittedly, she preferred the big chain
yearnings were part of her DNA, implant- coffee over most indie brews). She felt even
ed by a healthy (some might say unhealthy better about the fact that was using a mug,
diet) of Disney films and The Princess Bride. rather than wasting a paper cup. Two levels
of guilt killed in one stone.
She was eager for another shot at love
(but not the likelihood of missing out at said Aside from her primal need for caffeine
shot). and finding the man of her dreams, she
was here to study, work on sketches for
Emily was comfortably perched in her her art portfolio, and hopefully if she had
favorite cozy, indie coffee shop where ev- time – read her hard cover copy of Lord of
eryone is creative and full of life and purpose the Rings that she got from her parents for
and ideas. Though outwardly conservative, Christmas – one of those collector’s edi-
she always felt more at home among these tions from Barnes & Noble.
“type” of people, despite the realization that
they were likely to see her as the outsider But, of course, she was always on the
–a plain Jane. Of course, she knew there was lookout for his Prince Charming – no scratch
more to her than that. Rarely, did others see that, her Westley to her (albeit nerdy) Prin-
it. If only they could hear her playlist. cess Buttercup.

Even in her own social circle, she was And this is why she was single.
an enigma. Her liberal friends found her
too conservative. And her conservative But then suddenly…
friends found her too liberal. So, where
did this leave her? One would think being She first spotted him standing at the
smack dab in the middle would make her front of the line from her vantage point in
feel at home anywhere, but instead, she the back of the café. She could tell he was
felt adrift in a no man’s land, never quite flustered about his order. She turned down
good enough for either side, uncomfortably the volume on her music to listen in. She
doing the splits with one foot in one door immediately noticed that he was going out
and another foot in another door. of his way to be as polite as possible, de-
spite the inconvenience. Being assertive
At least she felt like she had a safe haven probably wasn’t his strong suit because he
at this coffee shop, eschewing Starbucks in hated coming across anything other than

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‘nice’. Some might see this as a weakness. alone a coffee shop. But as much as she saw
She saw it as enduring. She hoped he knew this trait as a plus, her inability to convey
that. any sign that was interested made the prob-
ability of finding someone like this problem-
She got the sense he was the type of guy atic. Somebody would have to break char-
who was too humble to ever take a compli- acter.
ment well.
So why not her?
Whatever the problem was, he appeared
to be doing everything in his power not to She devised a plan. She would stand
appear like an asshole – the type of guy who behind him in line with the hope he would
was used to putting up with shit – probably a somehow notice her. At the very least, she
bullied kid. An ugly duckling who blossomed could settle for being noticed.
into a beautiful, humble swan prince. In
other words, the male version of herself. But she was tired of settling dammit!

As it would turn out, she couldn’t have And knowing her track record, even if
been more right. she got noticed, it would be by being awk-
ward. It was her modus operandi.
She rarely got such a strong sense of
someone’s character. It was as though she So, what she could do to end her streak
already knew all there was to know about of bad luck? Like she promised herself and
him. Although she was admittedly never a her friends?
good judge of character, this time just felt
so…different. First, she would wait to see if she stayed
in the cafe, or took his coffee to go. If he
So, what could she do about it? was leaving, she would have to act far more
quickly. If he was staying, she would have
For starters, she hoped he wasn’t simply time to game plan.
taking his coffee to go. But even if he stuck
around, then what? Probably nothing. Why Hypothetically, if he did happen to stay
should today be any different? in the café, perhaps she could sit closer to
him. Leaving nothing to chance, she gath-
So even though she was unlikely to find ered her belongings and hopped into line.
the courage to approach him, what was the She needed a refill, anyway.
likelihood he would approach her? As much
as her past shook her confidence, what was But as her luck would have it, it was just
more upsetting was the unlikelihood that in time for him to get his order straightened
another guy would ever attempt something out, along with a coupon for a free drink
like that again. that he thoroughly thanked the barista for,
going as far as to tell her that she didn’t
For what it was worth, she got a similar have to do that.
vibe from this guy as she did on that fateful
night. Again, she realized this probably He turned around, making direct eye
meant nothing. But she was hopelessly de- contact with her.
voted to her internal hopeless romantic.
“Excuse me,” he politely said as he side-
He certainly didn’t strike her as the type stepped her, heading toward the door as
of guy who would hit on girls in a bar – let “Another One Bites the Dust” played.

No, please don’t leave!

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But he wasn’t leaving! Instead, he veered She frantically grabbed her drink, nearly
off to a window table. knocking it over as she realized that not
only had somebody already taken the table
Phew! she was previously sitting at, but there was
not a single table left at all.
And it just so happened that there
was a table open right next to him. It was So now what? She looked around help-
all working out so perfectly! It was all but lessly, hoping she didn’t look at panic as she
written in the stars! felt.

But now what? What was she supposed to do now?

Even though she was next in line, she Was she really going to have to leave?
debated leaving it so she could grab that
table, but she also really needed more caf- At the very least, she wanted to get work
feine. Besides, it would have been odd if done.
she didn’t have a drink with her after sitting
back down. But she would probably have to do so
at home.
Would anybody even notice?
She turned to head toward the door,
She could always set her stuff down, bumping into another customer and spilling
then get back in line. That wouldn’t be so half of her coffee – and the customer’s.
weird, right?
“So sorry!”
She continued eyeing the table like a
hawk. She noticed him watching her. The customer was clearly annoyed and
walked away. She couldn’t even clean up
Oh my God! He saw me. Is he on to me? her mess if she wanted to, as she had no-
where to set her stuff. Embarrassed and
Was it possible he would even know why paranoid that she was making a scene, she
she moved in the first place? continued making her way back out into the
cold, cruel world.
She pretended to be scoping out the rest
of the room, neglecting to realize that it was But then, across the room, she spotted
her turn to order. a customer exhibiting signs of the universal
language of getting ready to leave.
“Miss?” the barista nudged.
She made her way over there, strug-
“Oh, sorry!” gling with the balancing act trying to keep
a respectful distance, but also signaling to
Panicked, she went ahead and ordered. others that this territory was being staked
out. Same principal applied to parking spots.
“Yes, can I please have a refill. Almond However, she was trying to become more
milk. Little bit of sugar.” assertive. She lost way too many spots over
the years. This was a sign of progress.
Rather than waiting for her order, she
bee-lined it toward the table next to her As the customer continued on gathering
crush du jour, but was suddenly cut off by his stuff, she asked just out of common
another customer who swooped in and courtesy:
took her seat.
“Just checking, are you heading out?”
Fuck!

“Order for Emily!”

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“Yep. Will be out of here in just a second.” she contemplated which side of the table
to sit on. Did she want to sit opposite him?
“Thanks!” Or, parallel to him? What would give her the
best shot of being noticed? What would be
“All yours,” the man said with a warm smile. less awkward?

She sat down. It wasn’t ideal, but at least Just as she arrived into prime posi-
she had a spot. tion, the customer did an unexpected bait
and switch and sat back down. She either
As she got herself settled in, she kept a changed her mind, or never planned on
periodic eye on her Westley at all times. leaving to begin with.

Would he even notice me way over here? What a ruse!

But then, a customer got up from the Not to mention embarrassment.
table directly next to him!
She turned around to head back to the
Fate was certainly testing her. other table she had just abandoned. By
some divine miracle, it was still available!
She wasn’t going to get up again, was
she? But right on cue, she knocked a book
off a customer’s table. At least this time, it
Was she trying too hard? wasn’t a cup of coffee.

Maybe she should just stay put to avoid She picked up the book and continued
drawing even more attention to herself. her journey back to her table, but just in
Then again, maybe being too obvious would time to get cut off by another customer who
be a good thing? Moving closer might be swooped it and took it.
the only way to get his attention.
Part of her felt the urge to claim what
As long as she didn’t look too desperate. she thought was rightfully hers. But by the
same token, it was all her own doing!
She also considered: what if the cus-
tomer wasn’t actually leaving? She didn’t She accepted this fact: fate was telling
want to get caught in a no man’s land be- her to throw in the towel and leave. She
tween tables. gave it a worthy effort. It just wasn’t meant
to be. As she headed toward the exit, with
Next thing she knew, she was heading her tail between her legs, a voice beamed
over there. It didn’t even feel like she had out, as thought through parting clouds.
control of her body at this point!
“You are more than welcome to share my
She inched closer, hoping by the time table.”
she got within striking distance of the table,
she could swiftly slide right in a peaceful The man of her dreams.
transition of power. But the customer cer-
tainly didn’t seem to be in any rush to hurry Is this really happening?
up.
“Are you sure?”
She waited awkwardly, knowing that her
mere presence was putting added pressure I don’t mind at all!”
on him to hurry up, which was only half-
true. Should she say something? Or, would “Thank you.”
that only make it worse? While she waited,

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She proceeded to sit down, managing to all, but that he simply didn’t care. Yet, she
knock over another customer’s coffee right couldn’t help but sense his gaze on her. She
off her table. was too nervous to look back, thus limiting
any chance she had at making a meaningful
“I am soo sorry. Let me get you another connection. And as much as she wanted him
one!” to notice her, she was also equally self-con-
scious about it.
“Don’t worry about it,” the customer said,
with only a slight tone of annoyance. “I was When then she somehow found the
just about done anyway.” courage, she realized he wasn’t looking
at her at all – he was deeply immersed in
An employee rushed to the scene with whatever it was that he writing in his tat-
a mop bucket. tered composition book and lost in what-
ever he was listening to on his headphones.
“So sorry,” she said to the employee, who Which also made her realize the possibility
either didn’t hear her, or ignored her. that he was a writer. Which, in turn made
her fall in love even more.
“Thank you so much.”
At least he seemed pretty settled in for
“No problem.” the long haul.

She settled in awkwardly into her spot. Wishful thinking?

“Thanks again. I feel like I am taking up Of course, there was no way to know
space you need.” how long he would stay, but he seemed
pretty engrossed in that notebook. It was as
“Seriousyly. It’s fine. I’m very flexible.” though she wasn’t even there at all. But she
should have expected otherwise? Perhaps it
I’m sure you are. was her time to make a move.

She felt frazzled and embarrassed and For now, she decided her best course of
could feel her heart racing. She would have option was to get busy with her own work.
been shocked if he didn’t notice, which, of But all she could do was fake it, fixating in-
course, only made her more nervous. stead on what he could possibly be writing
in that notebook.
To ease her mind, she pulled out her
book, but quickly realized she could only As much as she wanted to continue
pretend to read it, taking nervous sips of taking secret peaks at him, her shyness
coffee and trying to control the butterflies prohibited her from diverting her eyes away
that were trying with all their might to es- from the book she was pretending to read.
cape from her belly. Adding more caffeine
to the fire probably wasn’t the best idea. But then she thought of a low-risk way to
get his attention. She stood up and turned
The words in her book might as well toward him:
have been in a foreign language.
“Excuse me, but can you just keep an eye
Meanwhile, her future husband ap- on my stuff while I go to the restroom?”
peared to be far too engrossed in his work
to even glance in her general direction “Oh, of course, no problem.”
– perhaps out of politeness, as to not en-
croach up on her limited space.

Again, she considered the possibility
that he not only did he not noticed her at

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She always found asking people to do longer she spent in the bathroom, the more
this was pointless. Did this security mea- likely he would think about what she might
sure actually ever prevent a theft? Maybe be doing in there.
people only did it in the context that she
was doing it? A subtle form of flirtation With a deep breath, she headed back to
her table.
She headed toward the restroom and
immediately regretted her method. Be- “Thank you,” she said with a smile.
cause this now meant that his first interac-
tion with her painted an image of her using “No problem,” he said. “I had to fight
the restroom. Nothing she could do about someone off with a stick, but other than
it now. that, no issues.”

She entered the restroom and realized She laughed.
she really did have to go. She could feel her
heart racing and realized how utterly ridic- Oh my God, he talked to me!
ulous she was being. She couldn’t help but
wonder whether he had any ulterior mo- Granted, he was only replying to my
tives with asking her to sit with him? Or, was thank you. Probably just being polite. Can’t
he just being nice? Would he have done the possibly mean anything.
same if it were a guy? Or, a less attractive
woman? So now what?

Why am I so hopeless? Since reading wasn’t in the cards, she
took out her sketchbook to work on her
But it didn’t have to be. Hadn’t she al- portfolio. Last, but not least, she put on
ready learned her lesson? She had complete Enya to settle her nerves.
control of her destiny. Well, as in making a
move. If he didn’t reciprocate, there was Her Enya obsession was one of her dirty
nothing she could do about that. little secrets. In fact, she made sure her
phone was turned so he wouldn’t notice.
The question remained: what was she
going to do about it? Leave it to chance? Risk But even with the soothing melodies of
letting the potential love of her life walk out Enya pouring into her ears, she still couldn’t
the door with the likelihood that she would concentrate. He was like a magnet, erasing
never see him again? She couldn’t let her all of her data. She got the sense that even
past dictate what she was likely to do in this if he did leave, the regret of throwing away
situation. She would have to be proactive. a chance for romance would dominate her
But realizing this didn’t necessarily mean thoughts for weeks.
she would follow through on it. In fact, it
probably meant there was a greater chance And then…
she would crack under pressure.
. “Excuse me…?”
But there was only one way to find out.
At first, she didn’t realize he was talking
She headed out of the stall, washed her to her, but then she saw the way he was
hands, and took a long, last look at her- leaning.
self in the mirror, before realizing that the
She removed her headphones.

“Hi, yes.”

“Okay, your turn. Mind watching my stuff?

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“Hmmm, let me think….sure, I guess?” “That was quick!”
she said with an unexpected coy smile.
Seriously?! That’s the best I can do?!
“It’s okay” he said sitting back down.
“Guess I’ll have to hold it in.” “You were timing me?”

He’s totally playing along! Is this really “Sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
happening?!
“Don’t be,” he laughed. “And I owe you a
“Okay, but what should I do if someone big thank you.”
tries to steal it?”
“For what?”
“Want my stick?”
“Well, everything seems to be accounted
He’s not only playing along, he’s using for.
innuendo.
“Oh, yeah. But only because I fought off
“Oh, my God, that sounded awful,” he said, five people with your stick.”
blushing. “I honestly—”
“Knew I could count on you.”
“I know,” she said, laughing. “It’s even
funnier that you didn’t mean it.” “Glad somebody can.”

She actually found herself wishing he “It’s funny how we feel the need to ask
meant it. But was more impressed by the someone to watch our stuff when we go to
fact that he didn’t. Perhaps, on a subcon- the bathroom. Because what does that re-
scious level, he did. ally mean? Has anyone ever had anything
stolen? And has anyone ever had to defend
She watched as he headed to the re- somebody’s stuff?”
stroom. She couldn’t help but wonder: did
he feel self-conscious, too? “Exactly!”

And what was supposed to happen next “So why do we do it?”
when he came back?
“You tell me.”
If she went by her track record, she knew
the answer to that question: nothing. “You tell me.”

She would find out one way, or another. “And if it were to happen, like what does
the person doing the guiding do? Signal for
What she really needed to be doing was help? Address the thief directly? Call 911?”
studying for her upcoming exam. Or, work
on her portfolio. But she knew it was use- “I bet it’s never happened before. Ever.”
less. She was relishing being the female lead
in a romantic comedy and she had to play “Yet, we do it anyway.”
the part. And the part was that of a nervous,
awkward, hopeless romantic. “Sometimes, it’s the only way to get
someone’s attention,” she said coyly.
But when wasn’t she?
“Now who would do a thing like that?”
The only difference, she now had a
seemingly willing co-star. They both smiled.

She looked up. He was already on his “James,” he said, offering his hand.
way back! It wasn’t even a minute!
“Emily.”

They shook hands.

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“So, Emily, tell me, what do you do when help other people’s dreams. And maybe
you are not hanging out in coffee shops?” make the right connections to help mine.”

“Hanging out and drinking coffee at home. “Well, that sounds nice at least.”
But mostly sleep. And study.”
“But I will never fully give up on my
“Oh! What do you study?” dream. My philosophy is “Just keep doing
your art. No matter what.”
“Art.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Oh, that explains the sketches!”
“Well, looks like that’s what you’re doing.”
“Oh, you noticed?”
“Yeah, well…it just feels like I’m spinning
“Maybe?” in my tracks after what my parents call my
‘pipe dream’.
“You?”
“Don’t listen. Or, listen and use it as fuel
“Marketing student by day. Failed musi- to prove them wrong.”
cian by night.”
“Trying.”
“Accordion?”
“That’s all we can do.”
“Bassoon.”
“Well, I will let you get back to your art.
“My second guess.” And Enya.”

“Guitar. Singer-songwriter.” She realized she had turned her phone
over!
They both laughed at their breezy inter-
play. “Oh, how embarrassing.”

“But the failed musician thing. The artist As embarrassing as it was, she was hon-
in me cries.” ored that he took the time to not only no-
tice, but remember.
“But I can’t quit! Hence, the song writing
I’m going. And got a few possible gigs “Hey, we all have our guilty pleasures,” he
coming up. So, by ‘failed’, I mean, the idea laughed.
of making money off my art. But I have
learned that making money is not what Only, it wasn’t a guilty pleasure. But she
counts the most. Sure would be nice, but wouldn’t let on.
not the end all.”
But was he being sarcastic? Or, genuine?
“I know what you mean. And that’s why I Or, genuinely sarcastic? She couldn’t tell.
am pursuing a teaching degree to fall back
on – even though there’s a part of me that “Yep, so true.”
want to get rid of my safety net.”
“Take me, for instance. I love Hall & Oates.
“I know what you mean. Sometimes, it Without shame.
feels like my naive childhood dream is all
but dead as I get closer to finishing my “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad.”
degree. Can’t help but feel that career is
looming. Hoping to at least land something “In fact, I’m listening to them right now.”
in entertainment marketing, so I can at least
He put his headphones back on.

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As they both got back to “work”, she was But then he put a folded Post-It note in
a bit disappointed that their conversation front of her.
was over. For the time being, at least.
“It was nice meeting you, Emily,” he added.
As much as she wanted to keep talking,
she didn’t want to be a pest. Perhaps he “Nice meeting you,” she mumbled.
was very busy. He looked busy. And she was
supposed to be busy, too. But she gave up Then he was gone.
on focusing. She just had to fake it.
She looked at the note: “Call me if you
A half hour later, he began packing up his ever want to get coffee sometime.”
stuff and she realized it was over.
Followed by a smiley face.

She smiled right back at it.

About the Author

R.J. Fox is the award-winning writer of several short
stories, plays, poems, a memoir, and 15 feature length
screenplays. His first book – a memoir entitled Love &
Vodka: My Surreal Adventures in Ukraine was previously
published by Fish Out of Water Books. His debut novel
Awaiting Identification was released last spring and was
placed on MLive’s top 10 Michigan books of the year. Both
books – which were initially screenplays – are currently
being developed into feature films. He is on board as a co-
producer for Love & Vodka.

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THE ABLEIST

by John Tavares

Aaron followed her partway across the city the textbook was a later edition of the same
of Toronto, even though he was concentrat- text he used in the course he took in ab-
ing deeply, finally focussing on the sketches normal psychology as an elective at Ryerson
and drawings for his revolutionary Canadian University when he was a fashion design
winter parka. He could not believe his own student.
actions, since he had never followed a wom-
an anywhere. When he first noticed her in After she took her latte and walked out
The Perky Barista, he had been arguing with of the café, he asked the barista to hurry
his sister, who abruptly hung up her cell- with his coffee. When she said she needed
phone. He resumed sketching the function- to brew a fresh pot of coffee, to ensure
al durable comfortable parka he dreamed quality and freshness, he told her not to
would disrupt the entire winterwear indus- worry. He walked out of the café without
try. He also just filled out a job application his wallet, which he left open on the
form for the Perky Barista, hoping to land counter. He also left behind at his table his
a position before his employment benefits sketches, his backpack, with his groceries,
were exhausted and terminated. tofu, yoghurt, almonds, whole grain bread,
honey, a new short sleeve shirt he bought
Aaron was smitten by what he believed at a thrift shop, his fabric samples, and his
was instant attraction, love at first sight. prescription medication. He simply carried
Standing in line for a coffee behind her, he his smartphone, which he purchased used
noticed how horribly mangled her foot ap- from a server in The Perky Barista several
peared. He wondered how she was able to weeks ago.
walk normally, or relatively ordinarily, with
a foot and ankle twisted in such a bizarre He followed the woman out of the café
fashion. Then, as she ordered her latte, he onto Yonge Street, busy with pedestrian and
felt preoccupied with her figure, her phys- motor vehicle traffic. Then he walked be-
ical beauty. As she haltingly uttered her hind her onto Queen Street at the streetcar
words to the barista, he noticed she spoke stop, but she did not notice him. The long
with a severe stutter. He gazed closely at snaking streetcar arrived at the intersec-
her hands and saw none of her fingers bore tion of Yonge and Queen Street downtown,
rings. She carried a thick heavy textbook on where she waited. She boarded at the front
abnormal psychology. If his memory was of the streetcar where she paid with her
functioning sharply, he would have noticed transit pass. Aaron boarded in the middle
of the articulated streetcar, where, having

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noticed he had forgotten his wallet with pale skin. Now he was trailing a woman he
his transit pass, he did not pay the fare. He considered the most beautiful he had ever
rode the streetcar east along Queen Street, encountered in his life, with a limp because
but he stood near the back of the streetcar, of a mangled foot and twisted ankle.
amidst the crowd of commuters and pas-
sengers, with a clear view of her, where she The broad expansive beach on a hot
seemingly failed to notice him since she summer day seemed a naturally ideal place
sat intently reading her textbook. Uncer- for such an encounter. Seeing she was
tain of his destination, he knew he needed walking, limping, in the distance, he slowed
to follow this young woman. Jogging his his pace and followed her down the boule-
memory as he tried to recall the last time he vard and then on the pathway across the
had taken such rash and unexpected action, park. He followed behind her on the worn,
he could recall no such occasion. weathered boardwalk past the washrooms
and changerooms and then on the sandy
The crowd in the streetcar thinned out, venue of beach volleyball nets. Across the
as commuters disembarked for their homes, broad expanse of beach, he walked behind
apartments, condominium units, pubs, bars, her from a short distance. Ostensibly, she
and shops and stores along Queen Street failed to notice him since she seemed to be
East. When the streetcar stopped at Wood- reading another book, a small light pock-
bine Park, she disembarked, but he noticed etbook, literally as she strolled across the
too late. Even though he protested to the beach. He could not help but admire her
streetcar driver over the intercom system, more, her focus and concentration, and
he was unable to disembark until the next even love her, for her devotion to books
stop. In fact, the streetcar operator warned alone. She came to rest several meters from
him he was calling transit enforcement; he the shoreline where she removed a beach
knew Aaron had not paid his fare and did blanket and towel from her canvas handbag
not like his belligerent behaviour, his ex- and neatly unfolded and laid them on the
cited attitude, and shouting. Aaron quickly sand. She took off her tight summer dress
told the streetcar driver he could not think to reveal a slender shapely figure high-
of the last time he had not paid his fare. De- lighted by a red bikini, which fit her volup-
spite the thousands of trips he had taken tuous form perfectly.
on the Toronto Transit Commission, he had
always paid his fare in full—for countless He settled down on the beach behind
commutes on buses, streetcars, and subway her. Deciding he needed to play the role of
trains throughout Toronto. He ran back the average beachgoer, he took off his shoes,
down Queen Street and caught a glimpse socks, pants, and his short sleeve shirt. He
of her walking, limping, down Northern stretched and crouched down on the sand
Dancer Boulevard towards Ashbridges Bay in his boxer shorts, despite his awkward-
and Woodbine Beach. In all the time he ness, self-consciousness, and discomfort
lived in Toronto he had never visited the with his surroundings and the gritty outdoor
beach, even though he had aspirations to environment. He watched as she continued
design swimwear; he disliked the sand, dirt, to read intently from her textbook.
and grit he associated with the beaches and
dreaded the prospect of the potentially pol- Even as the sun burned his skin, he,
luted lake water and the sun that burned his monitoring her, continued to languish in
the background of the beach, which grew

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crowded. Then a cool wind blew off the pathways and cement sidewalks of the park
cold waters of Lake Ontario, a vast inland to the boulevard. He followed her up the
freshwater sea, which stretched as far as sidewalks of the boulevard to Queen Street
the horizon. Despite the fact he felt com- East and the streetcar stop outside a conve-
pelled to join most beachgoers, as they nience store, where there was a lineup for
abandoned the beach, he stayed on the lottery tickets, and a coffee shop, where a
lakeshore, deliberately behind the woman, few retirees glared at his mascara and eye-
whom he judged to be his age, as the wind liner through the pane glass.
blew cool air off Lake Ontario.
Aaron boarded the streetcar from the
When droplets of rain fell, many beach back doors as she boarded at the front.
goers abandoned the crowded beach. Even As the streetcar clunked and clattered
though Aaron, sunburnt, chilled, felt full along the seemingly endless kilometres
force an onslaught of elements, strong of Queen Street, shops, storefronts, cafes,
winds and cool air, and then the damp- bars, churches, parks, he did not notice
ness of the brief light rain, he stayed on the scenery—he did not visually absorb
the beach. When she went for a brief swim, the street view—as he would have under
he admired her in total, seeing her for the usual circumstances. Instead, he could not
first time without her sunglasses, her top, a resist scrutinizing her hair, thick full tresses,
natural beauty limping beneath the filtered neatly brushed and gleaming. When she
rays of the sun. He decided he should swim disembarked at the streetcar stop with
as well. He stepped into Lake Ontario, which Yonge Street, Aaron followed her down the
surprised him with its cold water. heavy well-travelled stairs into the subway
station. Although normally he considered
Still, Aaron felt emboldened by her pres- himself a law-abiding commuter, he man-
ence, and the hope she might be watching aged to evade the transit enforcement of-
him. He dove into chilly waters in his first ficer, as he again jumped fare, passing unno-
attempt to swim in Lake Ontario. During his ticed through the automated turnstiles, to
cold immersion in the lake water, he never enter Queen subway station. He followed
experienced such a shock. Despite the fact he her onto the northbound platform for the
shivered and shook from the brisk wind and subway train that ran north under Yonge
his immersion in the cold water, he decided Street. He sat several rows behind her as
to stay at the beach, as she, oblivious to the she continued to read from the textbook
weather and elements, continued to glare in- of abnormal psychology. Such determina-
tently at her book, to study her text, to read. tion and intensity, he thought, and could
not help admiring this young woman, with
A few hours later, as the skies cleared her sharp focus, her fierce expression, her
again and the temperature grew warmer, furrowed brow, her intense concentration,
and evening approached, she shook the as the train travelled swiftly north beneath
sand from her beach blanket and towel, Yonge Street. He assumed that she still had
as she prepared to leave. He marvelled at not noticed him. When she disembarked at
her seeming immunity to the cool air and the end of the subway line, the last station,
inclement weather. Then Aaron followed beneath Finch Street at the intersection
her back across the beach and the fine dark with Yonge Street, he followed behind her
sand, across the worn boardwalk, back as she, limping, dragging her foot, avoided
across the neatly mown lawns and dirt

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the humming rising escalator, which was stairways to Finch subway station. Para-
fully operational, and purposefully and lyzed by a fear he would throw himself in
confidently strode up several flights of stairs front of a subway train speeding into Finch,
and along the industrial corridor in which the last station on the Yonge Street under-
they both found themselves alone. ground line, he sat crushed on the bench
in the middle of the subway platform. He
The tiles reflected the artificial fluores- had not spoken to his mother in a relatively
cent light from the low ceiling of the tunnel long time, three or four years since he first
and the natural shafts of filtered light that revealed to her and his father he was gay
found a path underground. Outside, the and intended to study fashion design at Ry-
waning sun of Golden Hour illuminated the erson, instead of commerce at the Univer-
office and condominium towers that lined sity of Toronto. His bank manager mother
Yonge Street in the burgeoning suburbs of and gold mining company executive father
the capital city. As she approached the exit wanted him to become a business adminis-
to Yonge Street, she turned around. Initially, tration major and a corporate careerist.
she seemed calm and unflappable, despite
her stammering speech, as she observed, As he crouched and languished in exis-
“You’ve been following me.” tential defeat on the bench in the middle
of the station platform, paralyzed with
“I am sorry,” Aaron said. fear, a transit security officer eyed him sus-
piciously. He found he still had his smart-
“Why are you following me?” she de- phone, which he had bought second-hand
manded, her stutter worsening. for several hundred dollars, but the battery
was dead, so he tossed the device into the
“Because I think you’re the most beau- wastebasket.
tiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Somehow, he managed to get up to the
“I don’t want you following me,” she said, payphone, after he discovered he had also
with starts and stops, as she stuttered more forgotten or misplaced his smartphone,
than usual. “You’re an ableist.” Then she and called his mother. Evening had turned
gasped, sighed, and took a deep breath, as into late night, as Aaron slouched on the
the sudden blistering intensity of her rising bench in the middle of the subway platform,
emotion and anger overtook her faculties, feeling aggrieved and bereft, fearing he may
until then mostly calm. “And I don’t want have suffered a heart attack. His mother,
to ever see you again,” she said, her speech who had not heard from Aaron for a few
less discernible, a stammer he found dis- years, drove her Honda Civic to the subway
tinctive and incalculably attractive. station, in the north end of Toronto, not far
from the high-rise building where she lived
“I’m sorry. Truly, I’m sorry.” in an apartment in North York, as soon as
she heard his mumbled and whispered
She hobbled up the concrete stairs to words of fear and desperation. He dreaded
Yonge Street at Finch. “Whatever you think the prospect of death and feared he was
about me is wrong. You’re an ableist.” having a heart attack—the chest pains
were oppressive. His mother feared he was
Aaron repeated her last word to him, intoxicated from excessive consumption
as he attempted to comprehend, and felt of alcoholic beverages—when usually he
defeated. Dejected by rejection, he turned
around and walked back down the corri-
dors and hallways, down the escalators and

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never drank, since alcohol and intoxication Days passed and turned into weeks as
he thoroughly despised. he languished. When he started to reach
what she considered a dangerously low
Another scenario she considered and weight, his mother started to try to force
dreaded: he was under the influence of hal- feed him. When he started sobbing about a
lucinogenic drugs, with which he considered young woman with a limp, a stutter, and a
experimenting for therapeutic purposes. disfigured foot, when he said she was gone,
Still, she drove to Finch subway station. out of his life, she brought home a mature
With the help of the large security guard, friend, a retired social worker, to whom he
she managed to transport and convey Aaron had lost his virginity when he was a teen-
into her car, which she left idling on Yonge ager, but he refused to speak with her. She
outside the street entrance to the subway managed to persuade a psychologist from
station. the hospital on University Avenue, to visit
him in her apartment in North York, when
“What’s going on, honeybunch?” Aar- he continued to lose weight, and she could
on’s mother asked. “Your sister told me you see his ribs protruding and his hair falling
broke up with Kevin. You’ve been with Kevin out and growing wispy. For weeks, he stone-
for four years, haven’t you?—and, before walled his mother, a new social worker
him, you went with Marco. What’s going friend, and then the psychologist.
on, honeybunch, you’ve never been with
women before—why the sudden change?” He managed to find his way into her
cleaning and maintenance closet and swal-
Having initially confessed, Aaron went lowed a blue liquid, clearly marked with
mute. The following day his catatonia and poison and flammable warning symbols.
concern about chest pains caused her to She seized him, like a disobedient child,
worry about his heart. She, too, feared he and dragged him to the washroom. With
was suffering a heart attack. She brought him her fingers and the handle for a wooden
to the emergency department of Toronto spoon, she managed to induce vomiting.
general hospital. The emergency department When she was satisfied he had regurgitated
physician ordered an electrocardiogram and most of the substance, she sat him on the
blood tests. After she examined him again edge of the bathtub in the washroom. She
and interviewed him, she discharged him went to the liquor cabinet, returned with
with a prescription of sublingual lorazepam. a bottle of expensive Scotch she had been
Aaron stayed at his mother’s apartment for saving for a special occasion, and opened
weeks, in the bedroom she had reserved for the aged liquor. She started forcing him to
him, when she was a student, but he never drink straight Scotch as an antidote. Then
left the bed. Aaron went mute again, and he she summoned the paramedics and an am-
began to lose weight. bulance on her cellphone. In the emergency
department, the doctors said his mother’s
His mother demanded to know whatever quick thinking and fast actions saved his life.
had become of his dream to design and man-
ufacture a functional, well-designed, and When he was discharged from the
comfortable parka, better than a Canada psychiatric ward of the hospital, she com-
Goose parka, but he could say nothing, even plained to the head doctor the hospital was
though he had left drawings and cloth and discharging him prematurely. She bitched
fabric samples in the backpack he had mis-
placed, forgotten, abandoned, with his un-
requited love, in The Perky Barista.

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and griped, accusing them of abandoning by a snowstorm, and refill the windshield
him, forcing him to leave supervised care in wiper fluid mechanism and tank with the
the hospital far too soon for his safety and bottle of blue liquid she had in the trunk,
well-being and that of the family. He was safely locked away. Every time she refilled
leaving far too abruptly for her liking, when the windshield wiper fluid, she looked at
he was potentially still a danger to himself. him warily and wearily through the front
She argued ferociously with the nursing su- windshield, covered in snow, ice, and fog.
pervisors, and then the doctors, and then
the psychiatrist, all of whom complained Finally, after countless starts and stops
about a shortage of funding, staff, and acute and help from a mechanic, along the road,
and chronic patient beds. Discharged from after they were stuck in the snow several
the hospital, walking with a cane and dark times, and the tires spun, skidded, slipped,
sunglasses, to protect his eyes from the and the car fishtailed, as they drove and
bright light of cold winter and the reflected travelled slowly, they reached downtown
sunlight from the frozen snow, he, dazed, and the Hudson’s Bay department store
emaciated, was driven by his mother back at Queen and Yonge. She did not even
to her apartment. look for a parking space and stopped her
idling car outside the landmark depart-
After she drove him home, she continued ment store building in the middle of Yonge
to argue for hours long distance with his Street, deluged with snow and traffic
father, first on her smartphone. When the brought to a start and stop crawl. Aaron’s
battery died on her cellphone, she resorted mother bought him a bright red Canada
to her cordless landline, which she put on Goose parka. Meanwhile, she also bought
speakerphone. Aaron’s mother continued him a one-way airline ticket on the evening
to wage verbal warfare with her father, who Air Canada flight to Vancouver. She drove
complained he was in the middle of a cor- him to Pearson Airport, driving on the ex-
porate merger, while she cooked and tried pressway past factories, manufacturing
to feed him medications and make him eat plants, squat office buildings, and chain
and drink. She decided to wipe and clean link fences around industrial parks, coated
her hands of him. by fresh snow, which would melt within a
few days from road salt, icy rain, sleet, and
In a snowstorm, a blizzard, which slowed sunshine. Having missed the flight, they
and ensnarled traffic and commuters lounged overnight in the airport, while
and gridlocked streets and traffic arteries she kept feeding him Ativan and buying
throughout the city, with extreme cold and him coffee and whole grain bagels with
wind chill, she insisted on driving a few peanut butter and strawberry jam. He, in
kilometres per hour southwards, down- turn, kept visiting the public washrooms,
town. The windshield wipers were working where he vomited in the stalls.
overtime, waving mechanically, swiping,
swishing, squeaking, brushing clean the Aaron’s mother sent him on the first
ice, snow, fog, and sleet in their smooth redeye Air Canada flight to Vancouver, to
repetitive back and forth motion. But the allow her former husband the opportunity
windshield wiper fluid leaked from its con- to deal with him, even though he had not
tainer, so his mother was constantly forced spoken with his father since he revealed to
to stop in the middle of the road, stricken him the truth which he refused to accept.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

John Tavares’ short fiction has been published in a variety of magazines, alternative
publications, literary journals, quarterlies, chapbooks, and anthologies, online and in print.
(These publications include, in roughly chronological order, Blood and Aphorisms, Plowman
Press, Green’s Magazine, Filling Station, Whetstone, Broken Pencil, Tessera, Windsor Review,
Paperplates, The Write Place at the Write Time, The Maple Tree Literary Supplement, The
Writing Disorder, Gertrude, Turk’s Head Review, Outside In Literary and Travel Magazine,
Bareback Magazine, Rampike, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Round Up Writer’s Zine, The
Acentos Review, Gravel, Brasilia Review, Sediments Literary Arts-Journals, The Gambler,
Red Cedar Review, Writing Raw, Treehouse Arts, The Remembered Arts Journal, Scarlet
Leaf Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, Mgversion2>Datura, Riverhawk, Quail Bell, Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Grey Border’s Magazine, Free Lit Magazine, Montreal Writes, Yarnswoggle,
Queen Mob’s Tea House, Westview, New Reader Magazine, Event Horizon, IO literary Journal,
Fishbowl Press, Otherwise Engaged Journal, Mobius, New Texas, Qwerty, Oddball Magazine,
BlazeVOX, Celestal Review, Bombay Review, Nude Bruce, The Account, The Elixir Magazine,
Wilderness House Literary Review, Nonconformist, Writer’s Egg Magazine, Aerogramme’s
The Mobile Library.

114

FOOD FOR
THOUGHTS OF THE

OVERCOOKED

by Chloe Komesarook

The pasta is curling around her finger like a the green Anaconda sits beneath the sur-
well trained snake. face and contemplates prey in the murky
current. A pot of Anacondas sits aban-
She’s supposed to eat it, but instead doned on the stovetop, as she recoils the
she’s teaching it to obey, because she is pasta from her finger and throws it at the
the master of nature. She wants to be the wall. If it sticks, it’s done. She watches as it
master of the kitchen, to stick her hand in hits the wall with a kind of splat, and then,
the oven and watch it come out nice crispy! like a bloodied body being dragged from a
like good ol fashioned turkey wings. She’s crime scene, it makes its way down the tiles,
vegetarian but she knows what meat looks leaving behind debris of all sorts.
like. And it looks like how it tastes. If fridges
were just boxes she’d package herself up She’s starting to have these nightmares,
and mail it off to an island, an island where which don’t really happen at night, they’re
there’s no spatulas or ladles. If you want it, more like daymares. And they happen when
use your hands. the water is boiling for the pasta or when
she’s nuking the sicken schnitzels in the
She remembers that she’s cooking for her microwave to soften them. It’s her mother,
mother, so if the cocktail potatoes are ready, trapped inside a melting pot of vegetable
she can’t fish them out with her hands. broth and assorted vegetables that have
been steamed. She’s… mmmmmmmeeel-
“The same hands that turned on the lltttinggggggg!!!!!!
tap in the bathroom after you…well…you
know…” her mother is going to say. If you mix human suffering with three
tablespoons of cubed vegetable stock, you
She knows that her kitchen is a meta- get a roast mother.
phor for the Amazonian rainforest; where

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

She thinks it’s scary to see her mother everyone forgetting the courtesy of using
in her daymares, but then again, mothers napkins. If crumbs make it to the floor, then
greet us all the time at the dinner table. the floor becomes a large plate; get on your
Whether it be a chicken, or a duck, or a cow. hands and knees and lick it up!
All mothers can be steamed.
Her mother, wearing a creme sweater
She’s standing in front of the sink and at- with a stain by the shoulder, whispers in
tempting to scrub the algae on the bottom her ear to remind the guests that “the brie
of the le cruset pot. But it’s not algae, re- is melting.”
ally, it’s actually the soft mushy inside of
zucchini, the part right in the middle with Time is melting.
the seeds. But sometimes it looks like algae.
Sometimes it doesn’t. Food never looks the Time melts when you eat, she has learned,
same twice. Sometimes chicken nuggets because it is when you are closest to your an-
look like teeth, sometimes they aren’t mo- cestors. The ones who ate similar meals, who
lars, they’re just the only thing left in the cooked rice or chicken or halloumi. It’s the
freezer that isn’t an ice cube. time for remembrance, perhaps the aware-
ness that without this meal, right now, we will
Suddenly, the doorbell is ringing. die. Maybe not our bodies, not just yet, but
our history will melt, faster than the cheese.
“Mom?”
*
Her mother is standing on the apart-
ment steps, holding a rabbit’s foot. “Mom?”

“You wanna put this in the sauce?” Her “Yeah?”
mother asks, absentmindedly.
“Will you eat what I make you today?”
“You can’t make a sauce lucky,” she replies.
Her mother is sitting at the kitchen table,
But she knows that isn’t true and so transfixed by the remnants of the noodle
does her mother. on the wall.

A lucky sauce is a sauce that has been cul- “Yeah, of course.”
tivated from very little, a sauce whose sea-
soning has taken years to pluck and purify, all She can remember what tomato soup
for the sake of accompanying something else. tastes like - it’s the air that hits you as soon
as you step out of a car, all rush. It’s creamy
No one eats sauce as a main, you drown like the southern butter which glides on
a piece of chicken or a steak until all you can toast easier than anything. It’s home, not
see is a wet mound and you stab your fork the place you go back to because you want
just to feel some substance. to, but you know no other tastes, and you’re
bound by familiarity, so tightly that you’d
But sauce is lucky because it has the rather taste the world in the same way than
power to drown. To ruin, to rectify. cook it differently.

* *

In the ruins of the living room, seven years Her mother is playing solitaire on the Ipad
back from the day, a young girl sits with her and stirring the soup, which bubbles and
mother as the cheese plate is devoured,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

seethes every few seconds or so. A one-sid- stronger together. Heaving this dough onto
ed conversation. the baking pan, loosening under the heat of
the oven. But then, she thinks, maybe she’ll
The little girl stands next to her, too short burn it. It’ll become a crust, sifted down
to see the top of the pot, but she knows if the trashcan like ashes over a mountaintop.
she feels the heat, feels the metal on her How we pay tribute to the deceased. She
skin, she will feel the soup tell her its ready. reduces the heat, slowly, letting her fingers
So she presses her hand to the pot and guide the dial to “barely heated”. Then she
waits. looks at her small creation in the window,
the way it sits, lifeless on the metal, the
* artificial illumination a decadent form of
torture.
Fold. Spit. Heave. Loosen. Reduce. Restart.
She restarts.
Folding the pastry upon itself, spitting
in between the loose ends to make them

About the Author

Chloe Komesarook is an emerging writer from the USA,
who moved to Melbourne to study Creative Writing at
RMIT. She has been published in the Bowen Street Press
Review and enjoys reading and (at times) writing nonfiction.
When she’s not reading David Sedaris on a lawn chair, she’s
attempting to complete her nonfiction portfolio.

117

POLLY

by K.C. Hampton

Polly Andrews is dressed up in her Sunday and adds, “my name is Andy. Don’t worry,
best, finding herself in a luxurious home I’ll help you through this process.”
ready for a get together, unaware of how
she got there. However, this did not look “Process? What process?”
like a joyous occasion, with everyone cry-
ing at every turn. She takes a look around at “It’s okay, just follow me. I’ll show you
the massive house, as a melancholy feeling around.”
rises in the back of her throat.
He takes her hand and guides her into
Polly couldn’t figure out why this place the living room, where people are crying
felt like it was a part of her life somehow, silently and soft mummers roam through
but yet seemed so distant. She looks around the air.
at all the familiar, yet strange faces that pass
her by, not paying her any mind. She tries to “Why does everyone seem sad? It’s so
tap someone on the shoulder, but her fin- depressing in here,” Polly said, wandering
gertips evaporate by the touch of their skin. around the room, staring at people that had
no idea she was standing before them.
She backs away frighten and starts to
panic. “Hello? Hello? Can anyone see me?” “They lost someone they love very much,”
Andy replied, simply.
“It’s no use. They can’t hear or see you,” a
young boy says, from behind a table full of “Who?” she asked, curiously.
fancy hors d’oeuvre.
At that moment two people were em-
“But, why not?” Polly asks, confused, bracing each other fiercely, with what
with her body paralyzed of fear for the an- seemed like brave faces, but something was
swer to come. obviously broken inside.

“I think you know why Polly,” the boy “They… look familiar. I have this dying
steps out from the table and puts his hand urge to hug them and try to make them
gently on her arm. feel better, but I don’t know why. Who are
they?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know you have a lot of question, but
“I know everything about you,” the boy there is no easy answer. Why don’t I show
said, sensing the worry building in her face you something?”

She nods her head silently, as he takes
her hand and they vanish just as fast as they

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reappear into a room, filled with stuffed an- me,” Andy said, as he hops off the bed and
imals and pink fading paint. walks towards her with his head slightly
down.
“Does this look familiar to you?” Andy
asks, as he walks over and sits on the freshly Polly lifts the picture from the wall, as she
made bed. leans against the door frame, sliding down,
with her knees tucked into her chest, as she
“A little… actually yes… yes, this is my says, “So, I’m not the one who is dead… am I?”
room!” Polly said with glee, as the memo-
ries flee back to her, playing dress up and Andy gives her a somber smile and shakes
testing out make up. his head, as he says in a whisper, “No.”

Andy looks at her with a sadden expres- “So, what happens now?” she asks, not
sion and says, “Actually, no its not, Polly.” sure how to feel.

She turns around confused, as her face “You go live your life. People may be
screws up into a twisted mess trying to sort grieving, Polly, but this is not a sad time, it’s
out the pictures flooding her mind. a rebirth of the person you always knew you
were!”
“But it has to be. This is my room and…
those two people down there… they’re my “How do I know I made the right deci-
parents! I remember, I… I just know it!” she sion? With mom and dad, they’re…”
said, with her mind racing and spiraling into
a different realm. “They’re going to love you. Just give them
time to process. That’s what this whole
Another thought occurs and her face thing is for. For you to let go of the boy you
widens in realization and fear, “They’re never really were and let those people that
crying for me, aren’t they? This ‘get to- cared about you, deal with it in their own
gether’, or whatever it’s called, is for me, way,” he smiles and takes the picture from
isn’t it? They have to know I’m still here, I’m her hands, as he helps her from the ground
not dead, not yet!” and says, “Now, it’s time to go be you and
don’t be afraid.”
“Polly, wait. I don’t thin—” Andy starts to
say, trying to reel her back to reality, but she She grins back, holding back tears, for a
was too hopped up on her memories, she boy she used to be, but never truly knew.
couldn’t see the truth. She starts to walk towards the door but
turns back to say one last thing.
She sees the disappointment rolling over
his face and turns towards the door, as she Before she could open her mouth to
interrupts him by saying, “I’ll prove it to speak, she wakes up in a hospital bed, feeling
you! I’ll go downstairs and tell them and the new lumps planted on her chest. Finally
you’ll s—” feeling like the person, she always knew was
living inside, she smiles with sorrow and joy
She stops mid-sentence, as she sees a as she looks up at her parents waiting by the
picture hanging on the wall. The picture of bedside, holding her hand.
Andy and his parents, with him dressed up
in a tutu, looking as happy, as can be. Andy Pollock, was no longer here, but
will forever be remember, as Polly Andrews
“Do you see now Polly? Those people makes her mark for the world to see.
aren’t grieving for you. They’re grieving for

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Kandyce Hampton is a full-time writer and mom to an adorable four-legged puppy. She is a
military brat and got to live on both coast of the country. She still loves to travel and has a
desire to write all around the world.

120

BRING ME THE
HEAD OF QUICK

CLINT

by Tyler Partnow

Dust, dirt and the musk of the breeze. For another figure was approaching by the sounds
a short while, all was silent. The hushed of his footsteps. They echoed throughout
breaths of those gathered nearby made the town from dozens of feet away. His long,
hardly any difference. Suddenly, the si- black coattails dragged across the road with
lence was interrupted by the light jangling each step forward. With no indication, he
of spurs. A large, foreboding shadow drew too suddenly stopped. Daughters clung to
closer to the crowd, increasing in size the their mother’s legs at the mere sight of this
further away it stepped from the sun. The individual, recognizing his face from the near
figure providing the silhouette stopped countless “wanted” posters around the town.
dead in his tracks and lightly kicked the dirt His name was infamous, that of town legend.
in front of his tall, leather boots. Raising the
brim of his hat revealed a pair of heavy eyes, “Quick Clint,” remarked the man parallel
slowly surveying the crowd before him. to him. “Nice of you to show up.” He tipped
“High Noon,” he muttered underneath his his hat to his rival.
breath, practically undiscernible to his au-
dience. The nearby clock tower’s bell began “Alright,” said Quick Clint, wiping the sweat
to chime. Once. Twice. Three times. By the off his brow. His voice was gruff, as if he were
time the bell had reached its twelfth toll, speaking through a permanent cough. “That’s
practically no one had moved at all. enough. I said I’d meet you here at high Noon,
and here I am.”
Another short breeze hit the streets,
sweeping away the dirt in its path. The sun “A man of his word,” the other man re-
burst down to the ground, peeling the paint marked.
off the doors of saloons and schoolhouses.
Though no shadow appeared, it was clear that For the first time, the onlookers chuckled
at the pair’s banter.

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“SHUT IT,” said Clint. Their smiles van- “That’s a good one,” said Young Lenny. “I
ished instantly, reverting to a pale, atten- can see why they call you Quick Clint.”
tive glance. “Now listen here, Young Lenny.
I’ve had just about enough of your shit. I’d “You know damn well why I’m called that.
say I’ve been looking forward to taking you Now quit stalling, give me something good
down all week, once and for all. to remember you by.”

“How’s about we get things started then,” Young Lenny sighed, looking down to his
said Young Lenny through an arrogant smirk. feet. He raised his head to take one short
glance over the crowd, revealing a smug
“You get him, Young Lenny,” one of the look to his face. “You know, Lenny. I must say,
townspeople cried out. With no hesitation, you’ve given me enough grief to last a man
Quick Clint shot him down in cold blood. a lifetime.” He slowly pulled his gun out of
its holster. Clint let out another chuckle, and
“Any other fans want to speak up?” Clint the two aimed their weapons at one another.
asked, casually sliding his smoking pistol Before their fates could be determined, a
back in its holster. The civilians all shook slight whistling noise started to catch their
their head simultaneously. ears. The sky grew darker as a shadow began
to obscure the ground below. Dirt, leaves
Young Lenny observed the crowd that had and tumbleweeds scattered in the wind,
gathered and eased his stance. His eyes fixed while the windows of the town cracked at
back to Clint’s eyeline. “Why’re you doing the pitch of the sound. Glasses and bottles
this, Clint?” He asked. “You’re a menace. You in the town saloon shattered after being
force these people to fear their own lives.” knocked to the floor. Young Lenny and Quick
Clint glanced upwards with pure confusion.
“This is what life is,” Quick Clint barked
back. “Survival of the fittest. It’s a test of “What in the hell?” asked Clint. Suddenly
nerves.” His eyebrows titled downwards, the unknown object fell to the ground and
creasing his worn, leathery skin to form a exploded in an instant, obliterating everyone
menacing glare. Young Lenny’s hand grad- and everything in its path. After the dust of
ually fell to his side, hovering over his gun the impact had settled, a monolithic, mush-
holster. Clint smirked, letting out a light room shaped cloud of smoke emerged, tem-
laugh. His callused fingers gripped the porarily obscuring the ashes of the former
trigger of his rusted Smith and Wesson. town. There was no victor in the showdown
Lenny nodded his head and began to pace between man and man. That’s what life
backwards. Once, twice, three times. A is, survival of the fittest. The frontier had
somber expression washed over his face. ended. The nuclear age had begun.

“Any last words?” asked Clint. “I know
you’re a talker, so for the sake of all of us,
how’s about we keep it brief, huh?”

About the Author

Tyler Partnow is currently studying Creative Writing in Orlando,
Florida. In his free time, he likes to scour flea markets for
8-Track tapes. Follow him on Twitter @Tyler_Partnow.

122

WILDFIRE

by Logan Beeson

The Elders had warned that this storm was forests of all different kinds almost as if in
going to be the greatest. No one thought competition against the lightning. The trees
it would be this great. On the foretold quickly became torches against the night
day, everyone was cooped in their homes, sky, our homes in the sky that we thought
among the trees, waiting for the torrent were sanctuary became our prisons. My
and flood surely coming. There was no wa- parents rushed me out of the hut, and
ter that day. Quite the opposite. There was we fled down our tree, racing past light,
something so odd about that day. There and heat, and sound itself. Time seemed
was not a drop of moisture in the air, as if funny then. It always does when you feel
the clouds parted and the sun grew twice in danger.
its size singeing the forest alive. But the
Sun remained the same. The whole village Your mind does funny things when your
watched the sky, tension building, so pal- life is in danger. Time seemed to speed up
pable my mother could almost cut it and and slow down at the same time, I watch
spread it on our next dinner, this thought as the world around unfolded at blinding
left a bitter taste in my mouth. As the day speeds, but I couldn’t seem to move fast
approached its end, we started to think enough. I felt myself being pulled along, as
that the Elder’s fortunes were wrong. My I’m suddenly on the forest floor. I watch
father joked that maybe the great sky god around me the greens, and browns of my
had taken a day off, and forgotten about his beautiful home being enveloped in glowing
big day. My mother laughed, but I couldn’t. orange and red, consuming a spreading like
The day felt too heavy for a god to have tak- fiery rats. These were no rats. Instead of the
en a day off. It felt more as if there were meek squeaks that made me feel so big once,
many large eyes pointed at us. Each with I could only hear a ferocious roar, echoing
their own thoughts and ambitions weigh- in my head. The sound of dying. Flora and
ing on the village like an anvil. Each minute Fauna alike all cry out in agony in a terrible
was a clash of metal against metal as they harmony. I regret not paying attention. If I
sharpened our guillotine on their anvil. had maybe I would still be with my parents.
But at that moment my foot snagged on
Suddenly those crashes were real. a fallen tree, its burnt corpse coloring my
Flashes of light struck upon the forest with leg in soot. Unlike the dead I have occa-
loud thunderous booms. Streaks across the sionally seen in my limited life, this corpse
sky. Screams are resounding through the was hot. As the tree tunneled and revealed

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red-hot coals within it, my shin made con- I wake in inky blackness. That same
tact. I could feel it branding into my skin and heavy anvil fills the air. I shouldn’t be alive.
I screamed jumping up, and over. I clutch I should be burnt, or suffocated, or crushed.
my leg trying to avoid looking at it. I look Maybe I am dead. It’s too dark to be life.
around for my parents but the smoke and Life is vibrant. Growing. I look around. Or
chaos are too thick for me to see anything. at least I think I do. Blinding light again.
So thick. I think back to my father’s joke. Streaks across the sky, my eyes adjust but,
Despite everything I chuckle. Maybe the once they are focused the blackness is in-
sky god did take a break. But it felt more terrupted with a single red eye, that seems
as if something had consumed him. Took to demand my attention.
his power for his own. And in his absence
leaves a vacuum. And vacuums are hungry, “Mortal. You are mine. I have decided to
and they are never satiated. Not long after spare you so that you can be a messenger. A
the vacuum consumes me too. beacon of my all-consuming power. Spread
the power of Bel, Lord of the First.”

124

NONFICTION



BOBBY CRAWFORD

by John L. Stanizzi

I know I’ve mentioned this to you before, proverbial “double-edged” sword flashing
but I think before I get into any details in that classroom.
about this next sad and ugly event, I need
to mention again that lots of times the kids If I outted myself and let the posse
that I picked on in the school yard were tru- know that the kid I was working with was
ly, secretly, some of the nicest kids in the nice, funny, smart, helpful…all of it, I’d be
whole school. I say “secretly” because I was blackballed by the posse, and tossed like
worried that if any of the posse found out a greasy lunch bag into the cloakroom. On
that I liked these kids they would have im- the other hand, if I was really nice to my
mediately labeled me a fairy, and then I’d be partner in class, working together, being
done for. Tough-guy image gone. Reputa- helpful, laughing, figuring out the school-
tion gone. De facto boss of the posse gone. work challenges, and then pull all kinds of
It wouldn’t be good for me. But like I said, stupid, cruel bullshit on that kid at recess
whenever I was assigned to work with one on the playground, I’d feel extra bad, extra
of the so-called pussies in class, they were mean, and extra confused. I just wanted to
always really nice, and funny, and helpful, remind you a little bit about how I felt being
and it actually felt like they genuinely liked a bully, before I told you this next story.
me, in spite of what a dick I was on the play-
ground. It was really wonderful. And again, Bobby Crawford had been with us since
secretly, I had a glimpse of what it felt like first grade, and not much had changed
to be a normal kid – no fighting, no answer- about him between first grade and eighth
ing back, no vulgarity, no attitude. None of grade. He was still overweight, and a great
that. None. Just me and this other kid – boy target for ridicule. His white “uniform shirt”
or girl, it didn’t matter – for whom I’d made was always wrinkled, and the right side of
recess hell, were working together, having the shirt – only the right side – hung out in
fun, and not being in any kind of trouble. It’s a crumpled mess at the waistline of his “uni-
a funny thing, but even the sunlight rafting form” gray flannel pants. His black “uniform”
in through the huge rectangular windows shoes were more scratches than leather. His
seemed more heartening, and the newly navy-blue blazer, with the St. Mary’s crest on
blooming lilacs smelled more like summer the chest pocket, was a wrinkled mess and
than ever. And one more thing about this looked as if it had never, ever been cleaned.
revelation – there was, without a doubt, a And let’s face it, the blue blazer was a cru-
cial part of the “uniform.” His whole outfit

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was topped off with his “uniform” maroon for twenty years. And here he comes, plod-
knit tie, tied in such a way that the back ding, expressionless, his greasy hair shiny in
of the tie was four times longer than the the May sun.
front, which was probably three inches
long. Bobby Crawford. He was a sight, man. When he was close enough that there
A total mess, and a walking target. was no way he could not hear us, Gary
O’Connor said, “Hey, Bobby, I’m gonna
Add to his appearance that fact that kick your ass.” Of course, all of us hyenas
nobody ever heard him say a single word, thought that was a riot. But to everyone’s
and there was Bobby Crawford – fat, sloppy, utter and profound shock, Bobby stopped
silent Bobby. And it is absolutely true. He and spoke! With absolutely no change in his
never spoke. Not in class. Not on the play- demeanor, and without looking directly at
ground when we busted his balls merci- any of us, he said very, very quietly, “When?”
lessly. Not when we followed him on the
walk home, being unrelenting. First grade Well, needless to say there was an in-
through eighth grade, and no one ever credible, massive, overwhelming, exten-
heard him speak. I’ll tell you the truth, I sive moment of silence, and finally, thank
could not get this one thought out of my God, Gary said, “After school today. Three
head. “What a fucked up life Bobby had.” o’clock in the picnic area at North End Park.
Kids at school were brutal. And he never Three o’clock,” Gary repeated. But it’s funny,
defended himself, never said a word. I could you know, I could hear in Gary’s voice the
not imagine what it must have been like at slightest intimation of either fear or lack of
home? I used to always think, “Why don’t confidence or something that didn’t quite
we just leave the kid alone? Why the fuck resemble bad-ass Gary O’Connor. And in a
are we always tormenting him?” That’s way I could understand that. It was pretty
what I used to think, but it didn’t amount freaky to actually hear Bobby’s voice, which
to shit. I just kept joining in on the daily was kind of high-pitched and didn’t quite go
mercilessness. with his bulk.

The really horrible part of this story It didn’t take a second for Bobby to reply.
begins here. It all started off just like any “OK,” he said softly. And he left.
other usual day at recess on the asphalt,
parking-lot “playground.” We were up to As he lumbered off, our conversation de-
our normal bullshit. Huddled in an intimi- teriorated into something like – Holy shit!
dating little crowd around the fire escape, What the fuck! Think he’s gonna show? I
we talked shit to just about anyone who heard he’s nuts. Damn, man, that’s the
dared to walk by us, even the nuns, except first time I ever heard his voice! Shit, Gary,
we were too slick and they were too stupid what’cha gonna do?
to catch on to our ranking on them. And
son-of-a bitch, here comes Bobby Craw- But Gary seemed cool. He was tall, the
ford, all alone of course, walking toward tallest kid in the school, and really, really
the fire escape, and toward the posse, the skinny. A wiry-type who swaggered instead
tail of his dirty white shirt hanging out in of just walking. He had “attitude” written
front. Shoes scuffed raw. Tie – ten inches all over him, and even though he was actu-
in the back, three in the front. Blue blazer ally just a tall skinny guy, his demeanor was
looking as if it had been rolled in a tight ball intimidating. He combed his hair like Elvis,
only Gary’s hair was curlier and thicker, the

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abundant, bursting hair of a thirteen year small wooden bridge that got you over the
old. He wore a watch with the face on the stream that ran all the way around the park.
bottom of his wrist instead of the top. His Down in the picnic area there was just what
wingtips were spit-shined to a mirror gloss- you’d expect. Cinder block fireplaces to cook
iness, and you could hear him coming from your hot dogs and hamburgers on, and five
a mile away, especially in the marble halls or six wooden picnic tables to go with each
of St. Mary’s, because he had cleats on his fireplace. It was also really shady, cooled by
heels as big as half-dollars, and he made a partially cleared out stand of big maples.
sure they rang out wherever he walked.
The posse chose a picnic table and we
After Bobby was way across the other all sat on it, fucking around, being stupid,
side of the playground, Gary spoke. “I’m busting balls, and really kind of forgetting
gonna kick his fuckin’ ass, and all you mutha- that Bobby Crawford was supposed to be
fukkas better be there.” And that was that. there any minute to throw down with Gary
O’Connor.
The bell rang for us to go back in, and
the afternoon was just another afternoon But all that changed when we spotted
in school, an endless pain in the ass, made Bobby trudging over the bridge. He actually
more endless and more of a pain in the ass showed. It was on.
because the posse knew that some shit was
going to go down at the picnic area of North “Oh fuck me,” said Gary, “There he is.”
End Park after school finally ended, and that
made all of us edgy and antsy. Bobby, a rumpled mess, walked toward
us. No expression. No affect in his walk. Just
When we walked out of school that this silent hulk heading straight in the direc-
day everything seemed normal. The whole tion of the posse. We didn’t say shit. We just
posse – Richie, Greg, Grasshopper, Gary, watched him.
Jimmy, Mark, Moosie, Kev, and me – started
our walk down Route 5 toward North End When he was about ten feet from our
Park. Of course, we fucked around along picnic table he stopped and looked at us.
the way, pushing each other, slap fighting, He didn’t speak. He just stood there. The
yelling vulgar things at passing cars. You light shone through the late May maples,
know, the usual stuff. massive rungs of light on a crooked ladder.
And though it was cooler in the picnic area,
When we got to North End Park, we it was still hot. Summer was coming. And
were still fairly far away from the picnic area, so was the end of eighth grade. The end of
which was all the way on the other end of the posse. The end of a huge and crucial
the park, right there in the shadow of the chapter in our lives – the grand finale of St.
huge catwalk that got you into Columbus Mary’s. And we could not wait. But today
Circle. No one…and I mean no one...crossed there were things to do.
the catwalk unless they knew what was up.
You feel me? We could cross the catwalk Bobby removed his blue blazer, tossed it
whenever we wanted, but you had better on the ground, and assumed the pose of what
be connected or you were fucked. I guess he thought a boxer should look like.
His feet were spread about shoulder-width
Once we arrived at the picnic area we apart, and his fists were raised, one a little
had to walk down a little hill and cross a higher than the other. And he just stood
there. Gary looked at us and we all laughed.

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“Rocky fuckin’ Marciano,” Gary said softly our reaction to Bobby Chapman would be
as he got down from the picnic table. Bobby different now. I mean, let’s face it, who
didn’t move. wanted to get their ass kicked? And so
quickly. No one. That’s who.
Gary walked the two or three steps
it took to get within striking distance of But then something entirely outrageous
Bobby, and that’s when it happened. Out of happened late in the hot afternoon of the
nowhere. next day. I clearly recall my rational brain
screaming, “Shut your mouth for once, will
Bobby threw a powerful straight right- you please. Just shut up and stay out of
hand that landed square on Gary’s nose trouble, you idiot!” But, as usual, I didn’t
which instantly erupted into a burst of listen. I could feel the rage welling up hot in
blood, like an airborne Rorschach. Gary’s my chest. I could feel my sense of control van-
loud grunt was the grunt of pain and aston- ishing. I was gone. I knew it. And I didn’t care.
ishment. The fight was over. Two seconds
and the fight was over. Sister Louis Marie was whining on about
some crap that I could not have cared less
Gary was bent over at the waist, crying, about. I could not get my mind off yesterday
and trying unsuccessfully to get his nose afternoon, and Bobby’s quick dispatching
to stop bleeding with the once lily-white of Gary. I couldn’t stop thinking that if Gary
sleeve of his shirt. We all surrounded him, had only not taken Bobby so lightly, if Gary
trying to comfort him, giving him whatever had been a little more prepared, and a little
we could find to try and stop the bleeding, less of a cocky punk, things might have gone
including a bunch of dried leaves off the differently. Maybe.
ground, which only made matters worse –
more blood, more pain. I could feel my anger continuing to
flood my thoughts, and whenever that hap-
Jimmy said, “He cheap-shotted you, Gar, pened, I was nearly impossible to control.
that motherfucker. He cheap-shotted you!” And I didn’t care who you were. Once I let
my temper get the better of me, there was
That broke the silence and then we all no stopping me. Not the nuns. Not Father
chimed in with Jimmy’s anthem. Sucker punch. Shanley. Not my parents. Not Mr. Thibadeau,
You weren’t ready. Cheap shot. Cheating bas- the custodian. Not my friends. Not the cops.
tard. I would become blind, and there was simply
no talking to me, no matter who you were.
It wasn’t until we looked up from Gary
for the first time in several seconds that Well, Sister Louis Mary finally had to call
we saw Bobby crossing the bridge over the in Sister Anthony Mary to help, because by
brook, blazer back on, his stride slow and this point I was standing next to my desk
impervious. He was headed toward Little and calling out, “Hey, Bobby! Hey, Bobby!
League Field #2 and in the direction of his Hey, Chapman, you pussy.” But Bobby didn’t
house on May Street. budge. He just sat silently, looking at the
blackboard. I remember so clearly the two
And so it was. We had clearly underes- nuns suddenly becoming incredibly nice as
timated Bobby’s willingness to defend him- they tried to calm me down. Did they think
self if need be, and how completely unin- I was fucking stupid. “Oh, Sister, how kind of
timidated he was by his tormentors. These
facts changed everything. Everything about

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you to be so very nice to me now that I’ve As he began walking in my direction, I
had a complete meltdown, disrupted your heard him say, “Thank you, Sister.” And then
class, and Sister Anthony Mary’s class, and to me. “And you, Mister. You will come with
threatened Bobby Chapman. How lovely of me.”
you to start caring for me now.”
“What!? No way!” And I immediately
With the two nuns right up in my face, went off again. “What about Chapman,
I shouted over Sister Anthony Mary’s huh, Father? He just gets away??? Why?
shoulder, “Hey, Chapman, I’m gonna kick Why, huh, Father? Why!?” Of course, Bobby
your ass, do you hear me? I’m gonna whoop hadn’t done a darn thing. I was just being a
your ass!!” complete ass.

Then to everyone’s amazement, Bobby Father responded, “You be absolutely
Chapman turned all the way around in his silent, Mr. Stanizzi, or else this will go much
chair and said, almost inaudibly, “When?” worse for you than it is going to go.

I screamed, “Today, bitch!!” Well, as a matter of fact it didn’t go badly
at all. Once we were back in his office, Fa-
To which Bobby responded, as calm as ther, standing behind his huge wooden desk,
ever, “Where?” Crucifix hanging on the old, yellowing wall
up behind him, leaned forward, his hands
“Picnic area, man! You and me! Three on the desk, and gave me what sounded like
o’clock!” a scripted spiel about trying harder to be
nice to Bobby, and to consider how Jesus
At that exact moment Father Shanley might handle a similar situation, and we’d
walked in. “WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?! be leaving St. Mary’s for good in just a few
WHAT. IS. GOING. ON. IN. HERE?!” weeks, and wouldn’t it be much nicer to
leave on a positive note than a negative
Of course, the whole class went deadly one, blah, blah, blah. I was noticing how the
silent. Bobby was facing front again. And I pencil thin lines on the cracks on Father’s
was still standing, being guarded by Sister wall resembled a map of a vast wasteland
Anthony Mary. Up in the front of the room seen from an airplane. I had never really
I could hear Sister Louis Marie explaining paid much attention before, but the wall
that completely out of nowhere I had stood was loaded with these fine cracks, some of
up in the middle of the class and threatened them even lifted away from the flatness of
Mr. Chapman. I heard her say, “I cannot un- the wall. It looked like you could drive for-
derstand it, Father. One moment Mr. Sta- ever and never really get anywhere. They
nizzi seemed to be staring out the windows were kind of hypnotizing, these cracks.
at the lilacs, and then something terrible oc-
curred.” It’s funny, you know. Sister seemed Of course, it didn’t help that I was sitting
genuinely scared and really troubled. in Father’s massive, brown, soft, cushy, cozy
leather chair, and I swear I could have fallen
She went on to say, “Even before I had asleep right on the spot. In fact, I almost
time to react, Mr. Stanizzi accosted Mr. did. My eyes felt heavy and to be honest,
Chapman with violent, vulgar threats. Mr. I couldn’t really tell you what the hell Fa-
Chapman responded, quietly, as Mr. Stanizzi ther was going on and on about. Although
was hollering something about the picnic
area at North End Park. That’s when you
walked in, Father.”

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through my fog, I could also tell that this was Even though this “looked” like a perfect
not going to take long and that there’d be no replay of what went down yesterday, I knew
negative repercussions. You get a sense for better than anybody that it wasn’t, and I
this kind of stuff after a while. Anyway, this began to feel nervous. Bobby was going to
was Classic Father Shanley. I loved that guy. show. I knew that without a doubt. I also
knew, because I had run my big mouth in
When the bell rang for the end of the class. That fact was that I was going to have
day and I walked out the front doors, from to square off against Bobby, just like Gary
Father Shanley’s office, instead of out the did yesterday, in front of the whole posse.
back door into the parking lot/playground, I’m not going to lie. I was freaked out.
the posse was there waiting. We had an
appointment to keep at North End Park. So Just like the day before, we all sat on the
we headed out, and it was the usual deal. picnic table, busting balls and acting stupid,
A ton of profanity. Busting on anyone who and Gary was a lot more calm than he was
walked anywhere near us. Yelling stupid yesterday, that’s for sure. But I wasn’t calm.
shit at passing cars. Just another typical Not at all. And then the reality of the sit-
walk home after school. Only today we uation got locked into place. Just like yes-
had a detour. Instead of going straight, we terday, here comes Bobby shambling across
took a right onto May Street, Bobby’s street, the bridge, expressionless, and heading
which just happened to end at the little straight for our picnic table. Somebody said,
league “stadium,” named the “stadium” “Go get him, Johnnie.” But besides that one
because there was a concession stand, an comment there was silence. After yesterday,
announcer’s booth, and closed in, wooden today’s meeting had taken on a much more
dugouts. It was pretty cool. Each section of serious air.
the outfield anchor fence had a big wooden
sign advertising some local business – The I kept running through my head what
Eastwood Theater, Main Street Hardware, Gary had done to be sure I did not make
Friendly’s, Prospect Pharmacy, Lou’s Pizza. the same mistake. I’d have to strike first and
That kind of stuff. fast. No hesitation. No waiting. First and
fast. And I did.
At May Street’s dead end, we hung a left
onto a narrow unpaved road. On the left As Bobby was removing his navy-blue
side of the road was the park; little league blazer, I leaped off the table and hit him
fields, basketball courts, the town pool, and as hard as I could smack in the middle of
green grass as far as you could see. On our his face. He wasn’t looking at me; I knew
right, totally littered with tiny liquor bottles, that, and that’s why I went for him when I
bags, cans, and any kind of trash you could did. Totally cheap shot. I must have caught
think of, was the catwalk that separated the his nose pretty good, because like Gary the
park from Columbus Circle. day before, Bobby was bleeding like hell.
The only difference was he wasn’t crying
That narrow road was also a dead end; like a little baby the way Gary did. He just
it came to a close at the little bridge that wiped his nose with the sleeve of his white
crossed the brook and entered the picnic uniform shirt, and then he looked down
area. As usual, the place was empty. Who at his shirt sleeve to see how much blood
was going to be at the North End Park picnic there was. That’s when I nailed him again.
area at three o’clock on a Wednesday? I’m pretty sure this one nailed him hard on

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the left temple, and he started to stumble I tightened my grasp on his balled up
backwards. shirt collar and pulled him closer to me,
so that our faces were actually touching,
I know for a fact that neither of us kind of smushed against each other. And
ever thought that the brook would come though the fight was still on, I also man-
into play in this fight, but we were wrong. aged to whisper into his ear, “You wanna
Bobby stumbled backwards just far enough stop, Bobby?” I heard him say clearly into
to catch his leather-bottomed black uni- my ear, “Yes.” And at the same moment
form shoes on the muddy bank, and in he we both released our intense holds, and
went backwards, completely disappearing stood staring at each other in the chilly,
under water for a moment before coming waist-deeply water flowing quickly around
up looking stunned. That’s when I jumped us. The posse was making all kinds of noise,
in on top of him, and what had been a fist but I wasn’t listening. I just kind of stag-
fight was now an all-out wrestling match in gered up out of the brook and headed for
waist deep water. We hung on to each other the picnic table, drenched and wearied.
as hard as we could. I was afraid that if I let Bobby stumbled out too, and without
go he’d land the punch that would put an saying a single word, he picked up his
end to this fiasco. Time vanished. I couldn’t navy-blue blazer, tossed it over his left
possibly say how long we wrestled in the shoulder, and headed out over the bridge
water, going all the way under, coming back and in the direction of his house.
up, still locked together. I could see the blur
of the posse on the brook bank. They were As the posse began to split up, each of
yelling, but I couldn’t make out what they us headed in the direction of our respective
were saying. What I could make out was the houses, I recall lots of chatter.
fact that I was getting tired. Bobby was a big
guy and it wasn’t easy hanging on to him. So “Nice sucker shot, Johnnie!”
I thought of a plan.
“I can’t believe you got two shots in be-
The next time we surfaced, still locked fore that fag even knew what hit him!”
together, I had my left arm around his
ample waist, my right hand clamped onto “Into the fuckin’ brook! How cool was
the shoulder of his once-white shirt, and he that?!”
had both of his arms around me about chest
high. We were face to face. That’s when, for But I remember not saying much. What
the first time really, we had ever actually I really wanted to do was just get home, get
looked into each other’s eyes. I’m not sure out of this soaking wet school uniform, and
what he saw in my eyes. Probably defeat. just sit in my back yard and watch my dog
Exhaustion. Hatred. But I know what I saw run around. And so that’s what I did. It felt
in his eyes. I saw a kid. A kid just like me. good to be alone, but that good feeling was
I saw Bobby Crawford. Also tired. Maybe tainted by the fact that I had cheated. I had
even a little sad. But mostly I saw a kid. Not suckered Bobby. Twice. And that felt shitty.
a scary, silent monster who deserved to be
berated and beaten. But a kid. Bobby Craw- The next day at school nothing had no-
ford, from my class. From every class since ticeably changed. Everything was more or
first grade. less exactly the same. The posse was blath-
ering on about the fight, Bobby was sitting
at his desk up front, right hand side of the
room, facing forward, silently.

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When I walked in I tried to catch Bob- that brook had washed away some of that
by’s eye. I wanted to. I even walked closer to stupidity that I had carried in my heart for
his desk than usual. I was hoping he would so many years. Maybe that cool, streaming
look at me. And he did. And I swear, I saw water had helped me to see more clearly
the vaguest hint of a smile in his eyes, a what an unkind fool I had been. I don’t know.
lightness that I had never noticed before. It But I smiled with my eyes, too, right back at
made me feel so good. It was kind of like Bobby. And so began another typical day at
seeing Bobby Chapman for the very first St. Mary’s, with one small change that only
time. The only way, the absolute only way a couple of guys knew anything about.
I got any advantage in that fight was be-
cause I cheated. I had sucker punched him Like I said, it was May, and we’d all be
twice. And yet, when we were wrestling going our separate ways in just a few weeks.
in the brook, something changed. Maybe Our time at that crazy place was almost fin-
it had to do with being that close to each ished. And while Bobby and I never became
other, to really feeling that the other guy best friends, or anything like that, for those
was an actual living person, just like you. He next last few weeks in our uniformed lives
was someone you had known your whole at St. Mary’s, whenever Bobby and I would
life. He was not some strange outsider who cross paths, we smiled at each other with
deserved my wrath. He was a kid. Just like our eyes sparkling with a little sparkle of
me. Who knows. Maybe rolling around in friendship.

About the Author

John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections Ecstasy Among Ghosts (Antrim House), Sleep-
walking (Antrim House), Dance Against the Wall (Antrim House), After the Bell (BigTable),
Hallelujah Time! (Big Table), High Tide – Ebb Tide (Kelsay Books), Four Bits (Grayson Press),
Chants (Cervena Barva), Sundowning Main Street Rag, POND (imspired – UK)), and The Tree
That Lights The Way Home (Antrim House).

Besides Adelaide, John’s poems have been widely published and have appeared in Prairie
Schooner, The Cortland Review, American Life in Poetry, Praxis, The New York Quarterly, Pat-
erson Literary Review, The Laurel Review, The Caribbean Writer, Blue Mountain Review, Rust
+ Moth, Tar River, Poetlore, Rattle, Hawk & Handsaw, Plainsongs, Patterson Literary Review,
Potato Soup Journal, and many others.

His work has been translated into Italian and appears widely in Italy, including in El Ghibli,
The Journal of Italian Translations Bonafini, Poetarium, and others. His translator is the Ital-
ian poet, Angela D’Ambra.

His nonfiction has been published in Literature and Belief, Stone Coast Review, Ovunque
Siamo, Adelaide, Scarlet Leaf, Evening Street, Praxis, Potato Soup Journal, The Red Lemon,
after the pause, and others.

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John is the Flash Fiction Editor of Abstract Magazine TV, and he has read at venues all over
New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Hartford
Stage, and many others.
For many years, John coordinated the Fresh Voices Poetry Competition for Young Poets
at Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, Connecticut. He was also a “teaching artist” for the na-
tional poetry recitation contest, Poetry Out Loud; he spent a decade with Poetry Out Loud.
A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year
(1998), John has just been awarded an Artist Fellowship in Creative Non-Fiction -- 2021 from
the Connecticut Office of the Arts for work on his new memoir.
He teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, Connecticut, and
lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry, CT. https://www.johnlstanizzi.com

135

DEAR CHEATER,
TELL ME WHY

by Ben D’Andrea

Cheating on an exam is more of a strike While invigilating a final college exam
against self-respect than failing it by honest more recently, I had a direct view across
effort. Most college or university students the classroom of a student reaching for her
who cheat resent cheating, as if someone smartphone concealed under the backpack
or something pressured them into it. That’s on her desk. Her smartphone was supposed
because cheating is typically the fallback of to be turned off and zipped up somewhere
students who lack confidence in their abili- out of reach. Unaware that my eagle eyes
ty to reach their academic goals. Their ten- had spotted her, she started texting.
uous sense of self-worth stems from years
of painful comparisons with luckier, more I knew who her accomplice was. Be-
gifted peers. They may even despise them- fore the exam started, I had separated her
selves for cheating. from her friend just as I had done during an
earlier test when I intercepted them whis-
But cheaters won’t oblige their teachers pering answers to one another. I shifted my
by admitting the root of the problem. They’re gaze across the room to where her partner,
far more likely to provide cringe-worthy smartphone in her lap, was receiving the
excuses they themselves only half believe. forbidden message.
One of the most desperate I ever heard
was the defence of inadvertent cheating If cheating on exams were a criminal
by a student I caught red-handed during offence instead of a common violation of
an exam. Apparently, cheating can occur academic integrity, proving beyond a rea-
without anyone intending it to happen — sonable doubt — as required in a criminal
like a flood or wildfire. Another undaunted case — that these two students intended
student argued he wasn’t guilty because I to commit the crime would be a slam-dunk.
stopped him before he could finish copying What I saw spoke loud and clear: they’d
an answer from his pal’s exam. The mere at- concocted a plan to cheat.
tempt to cheat had to be distinguished from
cheating as an accomplished fact. The college students who sign up for
my courses in procedural law — part of a
compliance program — know what the

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academic rules demand of them. Included they provide the self-doubters most likely
in their introductory package of informa- to cheat with some reassurance.
tion is a list of examples of plagiarism and
cheating. In spite of the clearly defined obli- What won’t work is moralizing from the
gation to play by the college’s rules in order lectern. Our classrooms of higher learning
to benefit from what it offers, cheaters plan are filled with students of differing and
ahead to break their tacit promise to play unequal capabilities, making it all but im-
fair. A surprisingly large cohort roll the dice possible to design a course that works for
in the cheating game. They figure chances everyone. In my experience, students who
are good they won’t get caught. resort to cheating aren’t the ones confident
enough to pass an exam in spite of the an-
Cheating in any classroom is disheart- swers that elude them. The rule breakers
ening. It’s clearly antithetical to a compli- are typically those of lesser abilities and
ance program where students learn about skills, haunted by past failures and plagued
health, safety, and environmental laws and by self-doubt. Research studies tends to
regulations. Legal duties and prohibitions confirm this.
form the core of the program, so students’
compliance with academic ground rules The two students I caught cheating via
would seem to be a given. Students ambi- their smartphones each came to see me
tious to pursue a career in environmental alone after the exam. I started their inter-
protection or worker health and safety views with a bland request: Tell me what
have to believe that laws can and should be happened. They talked about lack of time,
obeyed. A knack for academic cheating isn’t their warehouse jobs, stress — everything
a promising start. except their sense of inadequacy, of lacking
the qualities for success. Long before I en-
A discouraging number of students in tered their lives, failure had been one of
my procedural law courses have cheated their most unforgiving teachers.
on tests and exams. I would reject, however,
the offer of a foolproof surveillance system, We came to the conclusion together that
if one were offered, to quash cheating once they had both panicked. Panic as the osten-
and for all. (Drones now hover over some sible reason for cheating has at least the ad-
exam halls to detect smartphone signals.) vantage of seeming manageable. Upset and
Students must remain free to follow — or frightened, they both apologized and said
not — the academic rules, a choice that it wouldn’t happen again. I had no choice
would be stripped away if cheating became but to treat their pledges as if they were
impossible. Denying students moral liberty completely voluntary. “I believe you,” I said
is no solution. to both of them. We talked about planning
for the next exam. I found reasons to praise
Like most instructors, I talk to my stu- their efforts in class and on assignments.
dents about academic integrity. I allow them
to use textbooks and notes during exams The cruel irony of cheating is that it can’t
to reduce their stress. While standing by prevent the hit to self-worth that comes
to offer guidance, I give them time during from a poor or failing grade. Cheaters cling
class to prepare for exams and work on desperately to one hope only: to scrape by
assignments. These measures won’t erad- without getting caught. They want to be in-
icate cheating, of course. My hope is that visible.

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My students’ gamble on remaining in- Educators face one of the most delicate
cognito had failed. At the moment I confis- of all challenges when dealing with vulner-
cated their smartphones, their classmates able students caught cheating. At the same
knew what had happened. They knew that time, we must continue to hold our students
these two had tried to take unfair advantage. to the highest academic standards. I’ll keep
watching closely for cheating during exams.
But a cheater’s self-worth can’t escape
unscathed even if the cheating isn’t discov- Afterwards, dear cheater, you can tell
ered. me what happened.

About the Author

Ben D’Andrea is a North Vancouver, Canada, writer who has
taught English literature, a variety of writing courses, and
procedural law in British Columbia colleges and universities.
He the author of Rhymes Biggle and Wee, a book of
limericks for children. His published works include: What
Are Novels Good For? (The Montreal Review), Pulling the
Plug on Dream Interpretation (The Montreal Review), and
The Value of Studying Philosophy (Humanist Perspectives)

138

A RICE NOODLE
STORY (AND OTHER

ENCOUNTERS)

by Ying Xuan Chian

A rice noodle story (and other encounters) apps in my 20s, how I should have chosen
to study in Singapore instead of abroad,
My mother recently recounted a story to or for that matter, studied in a capital city
me about the passing of her grandfather. I instead of the little-known post-industrial
then realized how grief can be such a beau- town I eventually called my home for some
tiful yet wicked thing. 5 years), and when she refers to someone
else, I feel second-hand exasperation. The
My mother speaks a mix of English, Sin- fact is, more often than not, we couldn’t
glish, Mandarin, and various dialects. This have known better.
is likely the result of growing up in the early
days of Singapore’s independence. These Regardless, when she mentioned how,
were heady, transitional, and transforma- growing up, she wasn’t particularly close
tional times, and she was one of the ear- to her grandfather, I couldn’t help feeling a
liest batches of students in Singapore to helpless melancholy and remorse. I am, too,
be taught fully in the English language at not close to my paternal grandmother, and
school; both her older siblings were taught all too easily blame this on our personality
in Mandarin Chinese. She often says ‘yi differences and a generation gap. My pa-
han’ (Mandarin for ‘regret’) every time she ternal grandfather passed shortly before my
mentions something she wishes turned out father was born, and with the exception of a
differently; could-have(-been)s, should- tenant who rented out a room in her 3-bed-
have(-been)s, why-didn’ts. This often an- room flat some years ago, my grandmother
noys me, because when I’m the subject, I lives a largely solitary life. She keeps contact
feel somewhat deficient and imprudent with her siblings, and makes acquaintance
(how I should have found a partner in col- with her neighbours, but spends most of her
lege rather than fumble around on dating time watching television and cooking alone;

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there is no internet in her flat. She grew and came to live with us for a week until she
up in Malaysia, lived through the Second got better. An uncle on my mother’s side
World War as a child, and attended school suggested I take the opportunity to get to
for three years, then worked on a rubber know her better. We drew a fish on the com-
plantation, where she stubbed her toe – she puter screen, and coloured it in. Somehow
has the scar to prove it – before moving to we ended up talking about how she met my
Singapore. This all seems a far cry from my grandfather through an arranged marriage,
life and world; the only wars I endure are something I hadn’t known up until then. This
against my inner demons. was perhaps the only time a computer, my
grandmother, and I co-existed in the same
The chasm between my grandmother space, and the only time we exchanged
and I seems to only grow with time. My more than a sentence or two at a time; in-
mother constantly reminds me how my deed, technology can be both an alienating
grandmother is an over-worrier, a hypervig- force (caricatures of ‘smartphone addicts’
ilant guardian angel. She doesn’t just give – come to mind) and a uniting one. During her
she gives out. As such, my brother and I are week’s stay with us, I walked into my mother
told to do our utmost to shield her from our assisting her in the shower, and this was also
dark and messy lives; depression, addiction, the only time I saw her in a vulnerable posi-
failure, bullies, abusive exes, and present tion, unclad, drenched, hunched.
only a curated version of our lives: mun-
dane weekend activities, career milestones, I recall a time when I was a child of
academic achievements. Yet sharing good perhaps 4 or 5, and my brother – 3 years
news isn’t easy either. First of all, we have older – wondered out loud what the dying
to translate English to Mandarin, and even process is like...the skin becoming cold to
then, she is more fluent in Hakka, which the touch, the proverbial last breath, the
none of us bar our father is conversant setting in of rigor mortis (a child’s curiosity
in. After a round of Chinese whispers (lit- often takes morbid turns). I then thought
erally) she finally understands, and would about our grandmother and how she would
show an unfettered delight, gushing, lost for die in such a way, and began to cry. (Again,
words, grinning uncontrollably for minutes. my brother and I were once close, but just
And then I would feel abashed and guilty as our paths in life diverged, so did our
for even hesitating to break the good news common ground dwindle.)
to her in the first place, and to have even
thought about depriving her of such joy. I also remember a moment while our
family was on holiday, and my father and
Like such, my grandmother and I sustain grandmother had walked ahead of me. As
a lovingly awkward relationship. I only re- they strolled down the pier, I realized that this
call several instances of interacting with her was the only time I ever saw them holding
one-on-one, and even then, these interac- hands, and that this was how I would imagine
tions are heavily dosed with the same kind she held his hand as a child. Such was a close-
of long, awkward silences I frantically avoid ness I found difficult to have with her.
on dates with people I’ve known for barely
a week. But back to my mother’s story.

I remember once teaching her to use Mi- Her grandfather passed on a rainy day
crosoft Paint some ten years ago. I had called (all her grandparents died of natural causes,
in sick at school, and she had suffered a fall and she attributes this to the clemency of a

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higher being). He had been gravely ill for the persistent mental health difficulties, im-
months leading up to his death, and spent his postor syndrome, the growing distance with
last days in a hospital being cared for by ‘mis- my parents as I grew up and they grew old
sies’ (a colloquialism for nurses in Singapore – and simply excused myself as ‘not having
back in the day). My mother was 14 at the the bandwidth’ to cope with the additional
time, and walked from her home a mile or stressor of an ailing grandparent. But I am
so away to visit him every week. On the day also deeply touched that just seeing me
he died, she had brought his favourite snack, alive and fighting, even if not quite yet
chee cheong fun, to the ward, and placed thriving, is enough for her.
it on the over-bed table. Just as she swiftly
turned to leave, he called for her. She had My mother tried making sense of this.
left her wet umbrella behind (I came to know ‘When you were little, she never really inter-
my mother as a rather forgetful person), and acted with you, and instead busied herself
he reminded her to take it with her for the in the kitchen making meals for you. That
trip. Poignantly, that was the last thing he might explain why you aren’t close to her
said to her; he departed later that day. As now,’ she shared.
nurses cleared out his belongings, they in-
advertently noticed the cold, untouched rice ‘Perhaps we simply have different love lan-
noodles, and my mother learnt that he never guages,’ I suggested. ‘And she did her best.’
got to enjoy it before he left simply because
she had forgotten the simple gesture of The experience of estrangement is a uni-
opening the packet for him. versal one; I’m certainly not alone in seeking
meaning in alienation, and the remorse that
I researched the hospital he died in on often accompanies it. A friend suggested
the internet. Information on it is incredibly that crises of passion inspire many a hit
sparse, but as I discovered that it had closed single and literary magnum opus, which is
down permanently exactly a month before an astute insight, and an amusing one no
I was born, I felt an uncanny but decided less. At that point, I had survived two heart-
closeness to it. breaks, and indeed reflecting upon them
provided some closure, if not comfort.
I see this rice noodle story mirrored in
recent events. Two months ago, my grand- One was with G, who would often bring
mother fell ill with a lung infection and was up P (a quick aside: guard your own heart
admitted to hospital. COVID restrictions if your date constantly mentions someone
prevent our family from visiting her, and who broke theirs), who had been taking
this compounds my exasperation; one’s days to respond to his messages after she
physical presence can be comforting even had asked to be just friends.
if one stands in silence, but video calls are
tense when one is lost for words. Through ‘We all have busy lives, don’t we,’ I re-
the camera I saw how ill she had become – sponded. Of course, texting lulls are indeed
pale as rice noodles, with a nasal cannula up deeply unsettling, since they can be an in-
her nose, slightly delirious but nonetheless sidious harbinger for estrangement in the
smiling. After the call, I broke down, frus- tech age (a.k.a. ghosting).
trated and guilty, as I felt overwhelmed with
the pressures in my life – work deadlines, I noticed his face turning sour in dis-
agreement, so I elaborated.

‘But you’ll never be too busy for things
that matter to you. Sometimes, I’m not a

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priority in people’s lives, and sometimes, how ships pass in the night, and how lucky
they are not in mine. And that’s okay.’ I must be to be one of them.

At that moment I realized I was offering An anecdote shared by a friend of mine
advice I should be taking myself. I was very perfectly encapsulates the beauty of chance.
fond of G, and found myself rather trou- We caught up recently after not having met
bled by how distant he often was. I grad- for some 3 years; we had dinner in town,
ually realized how his estrangement with P then wound up at a coffee shop near my
had cast a shadow over him (and we all do home at midnight. It was during this late-
shoulder baggage). Perhaps his bigger pri- night, caffeine-fuelled conversation that he
ority at the time was coming to terms with described his friend’s digital art project, in
his heartbreak, and soon after, so was mine which a user would enter a random series of
in coming to terms with mine. numbers into a code, which would generate
fractal art. He described his friend’s frustra-
But sometimes, we can be blindsided by tion when he was mesmerized by one par-
intimacy itself. Some months prior, I met M. ticular output image but realized he had for-
When we first met, we talked from dusk till gotten the input parameters and was thus
dawn. It is fascinating how intense intimacy unable to recreate the said image. The spe-
is often forged between lost souls – he was cific, intimate choreography of his fingers
recovering from the end of an 8 year-long on the keyboard was never to happen again.
relationship, and I, having endured a par-
ticularly trying time abroad in an abusive But perhaps therein lies the sublimity of
one, was now struggling with moving back an unopened packet of noodles, a fleeting
in with my family while carrying the new- 2-week relationship, a 3-month long read
found weight of trauma. ‘We’ve only met receipt, an infinity of algorithm outputs.
a few days ago,’ he once said, ‘but it feels Stories of intimacy and estrangement are
like we’ve known each other for months.’ It fortuitous, and remind us that we often
later transpired that he wasn’t romantically occupy but a liminal space in others’ lives.
interested, and while we’ve since grown Yet, they teach us plenty about how bonds,
apart, I still find it cathartic to contemplate however fragile, and distance, however
painful, are both deeply precious.

About the Author

Chian Ying Xuan is a budding urban designer based in
Singapore with an interest in participatory practice, designing
for wellbeing, and sustainable development. She seeks to
incorporate smart technology, play studies, and inclusion in
her research and design work. When not drawing, thinking,
or talking about cities, she also revels in exploring them
on her roller skates, playing the piano, and swing dancing.
She enjoys both journaling and writing fiction, and is
currently exploring spatial storytelling through experiential,
multimedia novels.

142

TEMPERATURE
FLUCTUATIONS

by Frank Walters

Prologemena and if he is still alive, he is still in prison, and
cold is all he knows. You would fear him if
My father touched me after he died. I was you knew him, and for good reason, but you
writing at night under a single lamp and I felt direct your fear in the wrong direction. You
a tap on my shoulder. Or—one can never be spend your life looking over your shoulder
certain in these matters–he passed through for Billy’s like, when where you should be
the room as nothing more than a shudder in looking is within. The resemblance will
the air, like the ripples in a pond caused by a shock you like a plunge in the ice.
falling leaf. I did not yet feel the cold that is
supposed to accompany the dead. Triptych 1

I set my pen down and removed my According to the newspaper, Billy had
headphones. Minutes passed and nothing come home from work one day and used
happened and I was about to return to the knife beside the birthday cake to cut
writing when the phone rang. Mary, his wife, himself a piece, which he ate, and then to
with the news. We talked for a few minutes. stab his mother to death. He was twenty.
A relief, really. He had been sick for months.
The law that sent Billy to prison a guilty
We finished talking and still not so much as man says I am innocent and that between
a chill. Strange, I thought. It seemed just the the two of us there is the vastness of empty
right kind of moment, Virginia Woolf would space. You and I believe this space cannot
have said, to contain an entire conception. be crossed and that we are safe. We must
But be patient, the moment seemed to be believe this. To distance ourselves from Billy,
saying. You will know when the dead demand we evaluate life through the Law of the Ex-
your attention by the change in temperature. cluded Middle: a proposition is either true or
its negation is true. Tertium non datur. We,
The Killer in Us healthy in mind and body, soul salved in righ-
teousness, are therefore not Billy, never will
My father never knew Billy, but he knew be. But such spare logic excludes the middle
the type, having raised me. Billy is my age,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

from its calculations; it’s still there, vast, cold, youthful baritone,” a frame “youthfully thin
near. Logic is no match for the dark, forested and slender.” His complexion is “natural,
complexities of the human interior. (There healthy, slightly rosy.” If you were to meet
were rumors of Billy tying cats to streetcar him on the street, “he would, no doubt, have
tracks.) In that space is where the infinite va- made a good impression on you.” Such is this
rieties of human contraries play and where “overgrown boy” who had butchered the en-
the soul’s mettle fails. William Blake peoples tire Kinck family—father, mother, six children,
this space in The Marriage of Heaven and the youngest a toddler—by knife on a night
Hell with the Prolific and the Devourer. The in September, 1869, over a financial scheme
Prolific lacks restraint and overflows with that might have netted him at best a few hun-
the energy to create and destroy, the De- dred francs gone awry. But a photograph of
vourer demands the Prolific’s passive obedi- Traupmann, date unknown, most probably
ence. To reconcile them, Blake says, will “de- taken not long before his execution by guil-
stroy existence.” But they are not enemies. lotine in January, 1870, reveals more man
They live together, much as the Falstaffian than boy, though he could not have been
giant is restrained by the chains of the cun- older than twenty. His eyes are neither huge
ning weak. W. H. Auden makes the Prolific nor round, but half-closed and drooping in
the artist, the Devourer the politician, and a face otherwise notable for its frightening
sets them against one another as “the True impassivity. A published account from 1870
Way and the false philosophies.” But each (the anonymous Trial of Traupmann for the
knows the other, for each contains the other. Murder of the Kinck Family, in the Com-
Hence, Auden’s major premise: “There are mune of Pantin, Near Paris: New York, the
not ‘good’ and ‘evil’ existences”; his minor American News Company) notes “a round
premise: “Active ‘evil’ is better than passive German head” and “a dreamy German eye.”
‘good’”; his conclusion: “we, being divided A thin pencil mustache, the same publication
beings composed of a number of selves each adds, “leaves most room for distrust and crit-
with its false conception of its self-interest, icism.” His large, misshapen ears, according
sin in most that we do, for we rarely act in to one examiner’s postmortem, suggested
such a way that even the false self-interests insanity or idiocy. His feet were flat like an
of all our different selves are satisfied.” This ape’s. What was Turgenev up to? Are killers
translates Blake’s “The Prolific would cease beautiful, too? Dostoevsky dismissed “The
to be Prolific unless the Devourer as a sea Execution of Traupmann” as “pompous and
received the excess of his delights.” finicky,” but Turgenev wants us to weigh fully
the social and moral costs of a legally-sanc-
Triptych 2 tioned homicide before we pull the lever to
release the blade. Because we will pull that
I remember Billy as a boy of seductive lever, as if it were no weightier in the hand
beauty, with delicate, feminine features, than the knife was in Traupmann’s or Billy’s.
slim hips and limbs, a sensuous mouth.
Triptych 3
Ivan Turgenev thought Jean-Baptiste
Traupmann a boy of seductive beauty, too. There is only the beautiful and the ugly.
In “The Execution of Traupmann” (1872), he Because we imagine nothing in between we
calls attention to Traupmann’s “huge round see in ourselves only the beautiful.
eyes,” a voice that registers as “a pleasant,

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One day in the marketplace Michel de Amicus Curiae
Montaigne saw two men and a woman
displaying a horribly deformed four- Richard Weaver, the Asheville, North
teen-month old child, “to get money by Carolina, rhetorician, would have spared
showing it,” he writes in “Of a Monstrous little sympathy for Billy—actions have con-
Child” (1580). The child is actually con- sequences–but in “Language is Sermonic,”
joined twins: “Under the breast it was published in 1963, not long before his death,
joined to another child, but without a when Billy and I were in eighth grade, Weaver
head and which had the spine of the back suggested a more direct explanation for what
without motion, the rest entire.” Undoubt- Billy did than that provided by the grim sepa-
edly a sight difficult to gaze upon, until the ration of humanity into Prolific and Devourer.
mind’s eye fixes upon the disfigured souls The poor kid was a product—we all were–of
of the three adults, who claim to be the the modern “scientistic” approach to edu-
child’s father, uncle, and aunt. The truly cation, where the mission was to turn a stu-
beautiful escapes our notice: “Those that dent into a “logic machine, or at any rate an
we call monsters are not so to God, who austerely unemotional thinker.” From cold
sees in the immensity of His work the in- pedagogy comes the frozen heart. Schools
finite forms that He has comprehended of that era force fed students a steady diet
therein; and it is to be believed that this of positivism. They produced me. They pro-
figure which astonishes us has relation to duced Billy, though with Billy something went
some other figure of the same kind un- wrong. Neither of us could have told a syllo-
known to man.” Nothing Montaigne writes gism of the first figure from an empty card-
in “Of a Monstrous Child” is thematically board box, but he achieved heights in aus-
new, but the shock of self-recognition—we terely unemotional thinking I could not even
are Montaigne, father, uncle, aunt, mon- imagine. We were ostensible kin, without the
strous child all–should strike us with tec- slipperiness of blood as bond.
tonic force. Montaigne, who can be mis-
taken for a breezy and glib writer by the The Prolific at Play
careless reader, is himself on full display
here: the incredible powers of observation, It’s too bad Weaver couldn’t be with
the carefully-honed logic, the penetrating my teammates and me that Thursday, De-
gaze into the paradox of the real, the writer cember 24, 1964, on the concrete basket-
who converts others’ infirmities into art, ball court behind the high school, when
the unafraid expositor of the juxtaposi- the temperature in Pittsburgh reached 70
tions in human nature, beginning with his degrees. Coming from North Carolina, he
own, a surgical cut into ours. would have appreciated roundball’s curative
effects, though so far as my teammates and
Commentary I were concerned Billy was already beyond
salvation and we loathed him like a certain
We are bent and crooked by nature, as- secret boy’s-room sin and he couldn’t play
sassins slipping into the convent. So long as worth a damn anyway. And here we come
the light remains lit in the sanctuary, the to the crux. Basketball, not Jesus, saves.
law cannot touch us.
It would be the last halcyon December
of our youth, gentle and deceptive, for the

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abatement of storms is always temporary. named after the Minnow’s First Mate, Willy
Four months earlier Lyndon Johnson had Gilligan.) We were the same age as Powell
signed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, the and indifferent witnesses to history, blind
first in a string of bright shining lies that to its ironies. I walked past the TV broad-
formally brought The American Century, casting news of the riots without paying at-
only a few decades old, to an end with the tention. But it was December, now, and we
predicted whimper. That summer people were a riot of ten, armed with jump shots
had lined up around the block to see Gold- and the pick and roll. We drank Kool-Aid,
finger; A small few stroked their chins over when that’s all it was, from rinsed-out or-
Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop ange-juice jugs. We rested with our hands
Worrying and Love the Bomb. James Bond on our hips, not our knees.
saves the world from the Armageddon
Strangelove uncorks. Two months earlier, Coach had made the
final cuts on the same day, Tuesday, October
We ran up and down the court until by 27, that Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Stran-
the end of the second game our shorts and gler, was arrested. It is said that DeSalvo
t-shirts were soaked, and by the end of the found the names of his victims in the phone
third game salt stains had formed fractal book. You knew you’d made the team if
patterns on our black Converse lowtops. your name wasn’t on the list taped to the
We wore them because the Boston Celtics wall of the gym. To be among the unlisted
wore them. The Celtics were our team, pe- was to be saved. “Salvo” comes from the
rennial NBA champs. True, we were white Latin salve, meaning “Be in good health.” It
kids living in a white middle-class suburb, is the vocative of salvus, “healthy,” “safe,”
and the Celtics’ big stars, Bill Russell, Sam with roots in Sanskrit sarvah, “whole,” “in-
and K. C. Jones, Thomas “Satch” Sanders, tact,” “uninjured,” “uncut,” and otherwise
were black, and therefore urban, alien, untouched by harmful actions caused by
afar. It was the “sixth-man,” John “Hondo” the ill will or neglect of others. Passing
Havlicek (the nickname came from a John one another on the streets, Romans would
Wayne movie), we emulated: same black shout out Salve!—Health! Wholeness! By
sneakers but rural Ohio white skin and the sixteenth century, with a poisonous
cornfield twang, not the most graceful of Christianity having poured sand into the
players, a ruptured duck to that air-slicing cheery syrup of Roman genius loci, “salvo”
hawk Satch, but tough and indestructable, had acquired the meaning we know today:
a slow white unsinkable dreadnought amid the simultaneous discharge of firearms, or
the fleet of swift sleek black corsairs. words, whose task in either case is to harm.

Hondo was one of us. And it wasn’t he “Salve!” In your face, motherfucker!
who had started the riots in Harlem that pre-
vious summer. A white cop named Thomas Did we know the good role models
Gilligan had shot and killed a fifteen-year from the bad, or were we just kids on a ce-
old black kid named James Powell with his ment-slab bender? The sun was getting low
service revolver on Thursday, July 16. (Two and we joshed one another about missed
months later the name Gilligan was memo- shots or bad passes, asked who’d done the
rialized when the SS Minnow ran aground homework, played another game, and so
on an unnamed Pacific island soon to be put out of our minds the angry greetings we
would face from our parents once we got

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home. By one, they had told us. Don’t be The hiss in her voice and the smoke from
late, they had told us. By game four or five, her cigarette followed me up the stairs to
now past mid-afternoon, the gravitational my room. Back when I told her I had made
pull of fast breaks and the shuffle weave the team, she had clapped her hands in glee.
was too strong to resist. Orders from par-
ents forgotten. Grandparents and aunts and “You’ll have to take a bath at your grand-
uncles kept waiting. Christmas-Eve dinner mother’s.”
growing colder, and the atmosphere with it.
We didn’t know about argument by coun- The rolling brown winter hills and gray
terfactual, what we know today as “wha- stone mansions held in trust by white Re-
taboutism.” What about the kids busted publicans with English and German sur-
in the parking lot for smoking grass? What names, Protestants mostly, of Mt. Lebanon
about the kids killed on the late-night drive receded behind me, and awaiting me were
back from West Virginia, where the drinking the browner hills, crowded with stick and
age was eighteen? What about a knocked-up shingle homes, lived in by Poles and Ital-
girlfriend? What was it to be, folks? Toking? ians and Slovaks, darker-skinned Catholics
Drinking? Fucking? Rebounding? A question and Democrats almost without exception,
parents would do well to ponder. American surnames an unpronounceable mix of con-
kids not much older than we were killing sonants, of Fineview Hill, landscaped with
and bleeding onto rice paddies thousands small patches of lawn sagging under the
of miles away. I lived a mile from school. We weight of dog shit.
were hitting jumpers from twenty feet. Our
knees and elbows bled from diving on the On overnight visits I slept in the dor-
concrete for loose balls. What was it to be, mered garret on the top floor. To get to it
Lyndon? Shooting gooks or shooting hoops? I climbed the narrow winding staircase in
The sun passed low across the southern sky the dark interior of the house making sure
painting the trees and hills a golden green to avoid hitting the single lightbulb hanging
and we played on. Passing and shooting by a cord over the landing from a bent 16-
and running and jumping no ballet looked penny nail. Here my father had stored his
smarter, crisper. Each swish was precious army uniforms and World War II souvenirs.
to us. A cross-over dribble confirmed the It would be years before I learned their
body’s effortless movement through the dark secrets, but tonight, as we gathered
ether. Calling out a jump switch was a mag- on Christmas Eve, more than twenty of us,
ical incantation. in the great room on the first floor, in front
of the glowing Christmas tree in the bay
Be home by one? Rhetoric is not the ap- window, as darkness and cold closed over
plication of reason to the imagination for Fineview Hill and the city below, as the calm
the better moving of the will but the rattle of the holy night descended upon us, as we
and hum of a sputtering logic machine. talked of happier things, I knew that even
twenty years ago was still too soon to ask
The Devourer Remembers the Cold about.

“You’re late!” In the fall of 1964, and within two days of
each other, Lyndon Johnson, who had lied
Salve, mom! us into Vietnam, and Barry Goldwater, who
was calling for the use of nuclear weapons,
gave campaign speeches at the Civic Arena,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

where the high school basketball playoffs coming off Lake Erie. Cleveland won, 27-0.
were held. Goldwater lost, but was the My father, bundled and warm, insisted we
world any safer? My father, a Goldwater stay for the whole game. Walking back to the
man, must have thought so. On Sunday, car, inadequately dressed against the blue-
December 27, the Baltimore Colts would steel twilight sky, my breath a helmet of fog,
travel to Cleveland to play the Browns for dark and malignant thoughts filled my brain.
the NFL championship, and as a Christmas Just get us home tonight. But tomorrow, on
present for himself and me, he had bought your way to work, a patch of ice, an errant
two tickets to the game. driver coming off the night shift falls asleep
at the wheel, careens into your lane. . . .
By Christmas afternoon the temperature
had fallen into the thirties. Snow fell that In April, 1994, thousands of men, women,
night and into the early hours of the next and children were massacred in ethnic vio-
morning. Saturday remained cloudy, and lence in Rwanda. On October 7 President
the temperature hovered near freezing. Clinton ordered 4000 troops to Kuwait in
Saturday night the skies cleared and the response to Saddam Hussein’s buildup
temperature plummeted. It was still dark of Iraqi forces along the border, which a
the next morning when we went to mass, spokesman for the Joint Chiefs said “clearly
the cold dangerous and unforgiving. I wore represent a threat.” On December 11 Rus-
my Converse practice sneakers, my letter sian President Boris Yeltsin sent tanks and
jacket over a sweater, gloves, a ski hat with troops into Chechnya, starting what was to
tassel in the school colors of blue and gold. become the First Chechen War (December
My father wore fur-lined hunting boots 1994-August 1996). The total number of sol-
he had borrowed from an army buddy. He diers killed and wounded from both sides
wore a snowsuit and tied the hood under is estimated at between 27,000 and 84,000.
his chin and wore a knit hat under the hood. Human rights groups put the number of ci-
He brought three pairs of gloves. He knew vilians killed at close to 100,000. More than
cold. He had spent the winter of 1944-45 half a million were displaced. In December I
near Bastogne, living in foxholes, always was forty-five years old and playing pick-up
under the threat of frostbite, trench foot, basketball with my faculty colleagues at the
and German artillery. It was the coldest university where I teach. On Christmas day
winter Europe had seen in fifty years. my father woke up to begin the last thirty
days of his life.
“You’ll wish you’d worn more clothes,” he
said as he turned out of the church parking We talked often on the phone. The cancer
lot. had so ravaged his body that, as Mary would
later describe it, there was little left of him
There is little that I remember of the drive but a squeaky voice emanating from skin of
to Cleveland: a tunnel of flurries, flat brown a pallid, bluish hue. And because his body no
earth, gray sky. I remember nothing of the longer produced its own heat he lay under a
game, though footage I found on YouTube heavy thermal blanket. But I loved hearing
brought back the memory of a long run that voice. It told me that he was alive, that
from scrimmage by Jim Brown, Cleveland’s he was living, that all his life he had been
star halfback. What I do remember is sitting receptive to the excess of my delights.
at the top of Lakefront Stadium shivering
uncontrollably in the teeth of an icy wind “Remember that football game?” he asked.

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